TJL 


PREFACE. 


"  I  THINK  I  can  trace  the  growth  of  his  opinions,  from 
the  little  delicate  boy  who  read  his  Bible  and  prayed  the 
more  resolutely  because  of  the  jeers  and  taunts  of  his  com- 
panions at  the  first  school  he  went  to;  the  thoughtful 
youth,  who,  very  early  sent  to  Glasgow  University,  and 
while  under  the  spell  of  Chalmers's  eloquence, 4  got  think- 
ing' over  metaphysics  ;  the  poet  in  nature  and  aspiration, 
chained  to  the  dull  routine  of  a  lawyer's  office  ;  the  ma- 
ture mind,  to  which  the  incompatibility  of  the  theory  of 
punishment  as  held  by  theologians  and  by  jurisprudence 
grew  more  and  more  intolerable ;  through  all  and  in  all 
the  same  elements  —  unflinching  search,  honest  unbiassed 
striving  toward  truth,  and  unshaken  devotion  of  the 
whole  moral  nature  toward  the  Supreme  Wisdom  —  the 
Highest  —  God !  Sometimes  I  think,  Surely  some  kindred 
nature  will  one  day  take  the  threads  I  could  supply  him 
with,  and  weave  them  into  a  whole.  Sometimes  I  resolve 
to  write  out,  only  for  myself  and  the  nieces,  all  I  know ; 
or  for  myself  only,  the  sweet  eventless  record  of  —  indeed, 
indeed, —  a  great  untroubled  happiness." 

This  passage,  from  a  wife's  letter  soon  after  her  hus- 
band's death,  may  be  taken  as  the  key  to  the  present  vol- 
ume, which  attempts  the  portraiture  of  both  husband  and 
wife.  He  was  a  man  of  genius  and  rare  fineness  of  na- 
ture ;  the  associate  in  early  years  of  Mill,  Sterling,  Mau- 
rice, and  Lewes.  He  was  a  constant  contributor  to 
"  Blackwood's  Magazine  "  from  1839  to  1871,  and  that 
journal  said  at  his  death :  "  No  better  type  could  be  found 

384618 


iv  PREFACE. 

of  the  true  man  of  letters,  the  student,  scholar,  and  critic 
of  our  days."  But  his  reviews  were  anonymous,  and  he 
was  withdrawn  from  society  and  an  active  career  by  a  re- 
tiring disposition  and  the  fascination  of  thinking  purely 
for  the  sake  of  thought.  His  very  name,  William  Smith, 
the  commonest  name  in  England,  seems  like  a  passport  to 
oblivion.  His  personal  history,  quite  devoid  of  external 
adventure,  has  yet  for  thoughtful  minds  an  interest  com- 
parable to  that  which  attends  the  fortunes  of  a  Stanley  or 
a  Livingstone.  For  he  too  was  an  explorer,  and  in  realms 
whose  secrets  have  an  attraction  for  our  generation  be- 
yond those  of  the  Dark  Continent.  And  his  researches 
were  fruitful.  "  Thorndale,"  the  book  which  won  for  him 
the  greater  part  of  such  modest  celebrity  as  attached  to 
his  name,  gives  an  inadequate  measure  of  the  degree  of 
solid  conviction  and  clear  light  he  attained.  "Graven- 
hurst,"  his  later  and  probably  less  known  production, 
brings  the  world's  latest  thought  to  the  study  of  the 
world's  oldest  problem,  with  results  which  contribute  not 
a  little  of  clearness  to  philosophy,  energy  to  religion,  and 
peace  and  strength  to  the  heart. 

This  volume  includes  extracts  from  his  writings,  dra- 
matic, critical,  and  philosophical,  —  writings  which  various 
causes,  external  and  internal,  seem  to  have  hindered  from 
due  recognition.  A  biographer  may  be  considered  too 
partial  an  advocate  to  set  his  estimate  against  that  of  the 
world,  though,  on  the  other  hand,  that  final  judge  some- 
times nods,  and  when  afterward  roused  may  shape  his 
opinion  differently.  Be  that  as  it  may,  this  author,  by  no 
means  indifferent  to  the  world's  good  opinion,  was  very 
far  from  depending  on  it  for  his  happiness.  One  might 
well  apply  to  him  his  own  words,  written  of  a  man  of  like 
spirit  with  himself,  Arthur  Clough:  "It  was  not  till 
after  he  had  left  the  scene  that  the  world  at  large  knew 
that  there  had  been  a  poet  amongst  them.  Then  there 
was  much  clapping  of  hands.  Could  he  who  had  passed 


PREFACE.  v 

in  behind  the  veil  have  returned  at  our  summons,  to  re- 
ceive our  plaudits,  we  feel  persuaded  that  for  such  a  pur- 
pose he  would  not  have  re-lifted  the  fallen  curtain." 

The  idea  which  the  wife  intimates,  of  writing  herself 
some  story  of  her  husband's  life,  was  so  far  carried  out 
that  she  did  write  a  sketch  of  him  for  their  friends  only, 
which  afterward  she  hesitatingly  allowed  to  be  published, 
as  the  prefix  to  a  reprint  of  some  of  his  philosophical 
works,  a  connection  not  favorable  to  any  wide  circulation. 
This  exquisite  memoir  is  the  basis  of  the  present  volume. 
No  other  hand  could  approach  hers  in  fitness  for  the 
task  she  undertook.  But  that  task  did  not  include  any 
history  of  her  husband's  intellectual  development,  nor  any 
statement  of  his  final  views ;  it  was  the  beauty  of  his  per- 
sonal traits  that  at  that  time  filled  her  heart  and  inspired 
her  pen.  A  fuller  exposition  of  the  subject  is  here  es- 
sayed ;  and  with  it  there  is  blended  a  portraiture  of  her 
who  brought  completion  and  happiness  to  his  life.  Her 
charming  personality  unconsciously  portrayed  itself  in 
her  letters  and  writings,  with  a  vividness  which  makes  her 
a  living  figure. 

"No  woman  yet,"  said  "The  Spectator"  recently, 
"  has  ever  really  told  us  the  history  of  her  life  as  Rous- 
seau and  Pepys  have  told  theirs,  —  that  is,  without  any 
attempt  at  concealment."  It  adds  the  suggestion  that  a 
refinement,  a  delicacy,  and  sense  of  the  sacred  seclusion  of 
the  heart  might  restrain  any  woman's  mind  from  the 
necessary  introspection.  Certainly  any  conscious  self- 
display  to  the  world  would  have  been  quite  impossible  to 
the  womanly  nature  of  Lucy  Smith.  But  to  her  own 
friends  one  of  her  many  and  great  charms  was  the  trans- 
parency with  which  to  those  she  trusted  she  expressed  her 
real  and  inner  life.  It  was  an  openness  which  sprang 
from  a  generous  confidence,  and  from  her  constant  dispo- 
sition to  share  her  best  possessions  with  others.  Espe- 
cially in  writing  of  her  husband,  the  love  which  in  her  was 


vi  PREFACE. 

almost  a  worship  inspired  a  frankness  of  utterance  in 
which  her  own  traits  reveal  themselves.  In  self-forget- 
fully  picturing  him,  she  has  delightfully  pictured  herself. 
Of  literary  ambition  she  had  not  a  particle;  when  she 
made  a  translation  or  a  sketch  it  was  to  "turn  an  honest 
penny  ; "  and  when  she  dashed  off  verses,  it  was  to  ease 
her  heart  of  its  fulness  of  joy,  of  struggle,  or  of  playful- 
ness. Rare  charms  of  intellect,  feeling,  and  character 
were  combined  in  her.  The  ardor  and  depth  of  her  na- 
ture were  matched  by  its  disciplined  fidelity  and  winning 
grace.  It  is  in  her  private  letters  that  her  genius  shines 
brightest,  if  genius  be  the  right  word  for  such  a  union  of 
insight,  tenderness,  sympathy,  and  vivid  interest  in  every- 
thing about  her.  One  can  scarcely  imagine  a  creature 
more  brimming  over  with  life,  a  life  as  pure  as  brilliant. 

Such  self-revelation,  of  such  a  woman,  we  have  here. 
And  it  is  to  be  added  that  this  life  is  displayed  to  us 
under  all  the  great  typical  experiences  of  womanhood, 
except  only  that  of  mother.  This  story  ends  not  at  the 
marriage-altar ;  it  goes  on  through  the  every-day  experi- 
ences of  a  most  happy  wedded  life  ;  still  on,  through  the 
midnight  shadows  of  bereavement,  and  the  sacred  and 
sublime  experiences  of  love  stronger  than  death. 

One  other  element  of  interest  is  present.  The  wife, 
fully  sharing  the  husband's  thought,  is  like  him  led  to 
relinquish  much  of  the  traditional  creed,  comes  into  full 
presence  of  all  the  new  thought  and  the  new  doubt,  and 
while  the  problem  which  engaged  him  was  an  intellectual 
one,  on  her  it  falls  to  find  a  place  under  the  changed  con- 
ditions for  her  heart  in  its  supreme  needs. 

Whatever  value  belongs  to  this  story  is  largely  due 
to  the  extraordinary  openness  and  transparency  of  the 
woman  who  is  really  its  author.  It  is  not  inconsider- 
ately, nor  without  sense  of  possible  animadversion,  that 
such  full  self-disclosure  is  set  before  the  general  public. 
But  "  Wisdom  is  justified  of  her  children,"  and  they  who 


PREFACE.  vii 

rightly  reading  shall  understand  this  royal  woman,  and 
appropriate  her  as  a  personal  possession,  will  need  no  ex- 
cuse for  letting  her  show  herself  as  she  was.  One  who 
opens  the  pages  at  random  may  light  on  passages  which 
come  to  him  like  secrets  overheard  without  right.  But 
whoever  reads  the  whole,  and  understands  her  who  is 
speaking,  will  scarcely  wish  to  spare  a  word. 

The  contributions  of  many  of  her  friends  —  and  no  one 
had  more  devoted  friends  —  have  given  material  for  this 
volume.  Of  the  best  part  of  the  book,  she  is  the  author ; 
but  it  has  been  wrought  into  form  by  the  hand  of  one,  an 
American,  of  that  number  who  without  ever  seeing  her 
knew  her  and  loved  her.  No  word  better  sums  up  the 
double  story  than  an  inscription  on  the  inner  wall  of  Dur- 
ham Cathedral,  centuries  old,  following  the  names  of  a 
husband  and  wife :  — 

"  We  once  were  two, 

We  two  made  one, 
We  no  more  two 

Though  life  be  gone." 


CONTENTS. 


PART  L 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  MORNING 3 

II.  CLOUDS 19 

III.  LIGHT  BREAKING 25 

IV.  "THE  WOOL-GATHERER" 33 

V.  " WILD  OATS  — A  NEW  SPECIES"     ....  40 

VI.  WORK  AND  ASSOCIATES 54 

VII.  COUNTER-CURRENTS 62 

VIII.  " GIVEN  SELF,  TO  FIND  GOD"        ....        69 

IX.   "A  DISCOURSE  ON  ETHICS" 77 

X.  THE  REVIEWER 92 

XI.    "ATHELWOLD" 110 

XII.  THE  TRAVELLER 127 

XIII.  SOLITUDE     . 139 

XIV.  APPROACHING  UNSEEN 150 

XV.    "THORNDALE" 172 

PART  H. 

XVI.  MEETING 219 

XVII.  NEARER  AND  NEARER        .        .        .        .        .        .233 

XVIII.  UNITED 247 

XIX.  «  GRAVENHURST  " 267 

XX.   SWITZERLAND   .  301 


X  CONTENTS. 

XXI.  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER 310 

XXII.  ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME 324 

XXIII.  AMONG  FRIENDS    .        •     ,  •        •  .        .  339 

XXIV.  PEN  PORTRAITS 355 

XXV.  BESIDE  THE  SEA 373 

XXVI.  RIPENING  YEARS 391 

XXVII.  THINKER  AND  LOVER    .        .        .        .        .        .404 

XXVIII.  PARTING .426 

PART  III. 

XXIX.   BEREAVED 453 

XXX.  READJUSTMENT 473 

XXXI.  "LovE  OTHERS  TOO" 487 

XXXII.  NOT  AS  WITHOUT  HOPE 496 

XXXIII.  LED  ONWARD 516 

XXXIV.  "HE  RESTORETH  MY   SOUL  "        .  .  .531 

XXXV.  THE  MOUNTAIN  RILL 547 

XXXVI.  THIS  FRIENDLY  WORLD 560 

XXXVII.  THE  RELIGION  OF  TO-DAY 583 

XXXVIII.  SUNSET  LIGHTS 592 

XXXIX.  REUNITED 617 

APPENDIX 637 


PART  I. 

THESE  men  were  philosophers,  not  from  the  desire  of  fame, 
not  from  the  pleasure  of  intellectual  discovery,  not  because  they 
hoped  that  philosophy  would  suggest  thoughts  that  would  soothe 
some  private  grief  of  their  own,  but  because  it  was  to  them  an 
overpowering  interest  to  have  some  key  to  the  universe,  because 
all  even  of  their  desires  were  suspected  by  them  until  they 
could  find  some  central  desire  on  which  to  link  the  rest ;  and 
love  and  beauty  and  the  animation  of  life  were  no  pleasure  to 
them  except  as  testifying  to  that  something  beyond  of  which 
they  were  in  search.  —  Quarterly  Review. 

"  Led  by  the  Spirit  into  the  wilderness." 


CHAPTEK  I. 

MORNING. 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

THAT  must  have  been  a  happy  home  at  North  End, 
Hammersmith,  into  which,  during  the  January  of  1808, 
William  Henry  Smith  was  born,  the  youngest  of  a  large 
family.  His  father,  a  man  of  strong  natural  intelligence, 
after  having  made  a  fortune  sufficient  for  his  wants,  early 
retired  from  business,  in  consequence  mainly  of  an 
asthmatic  tendency,  which  had  harassed  him  from  the  age 
of  thirty.  The  impression  I  gained  of  him  from  his  son's 
description  was  that  of  one  peculiarly  fond  of  quiet  and 
of  books,  but  whose  will  gave  law  to  his  household,  and 
was  uniformly  seconded  by  the  loving  loyalty  of  his  wife. 
The  large  family  had  a  recognized  head,  a  condition  I 
have  often  heard  my  husband  insist  upon  as  essential  to 
all  healthy  domestic  life.  Whatever  the  spirits  of  the 
children  might  prompt,  it  was  an  understood,  a  felt  law, 
that  "  Papa's  "  tastes  and  habits  must  be  respected.  And 
these,  being  interpreted  by  so  gentle  a  mother,  were  never 
viewed  in  the  light  of  unreasonable  restraints.  This  dear 
mother  seems  to  have  been  a  woman  of  a  quite  primitive 
type,  full  of  silent  piety,  wrapped  up  in  the  home  and  the 
family.  She  was  of  partly  German  extraction  ;  her  mother 
had  been  an  eminently  saintly  character,  and  I  have 
caught  glimpses  too  of  a  grandfather  devoted  to  the  study 
of  Jacob  Boehme,  whose  folio  volumes,  and  the  tradition 
of  the  veneration  in  which  they  had  been  held,  still  ex- 
isted in  the  Hammersmith  home. 

How  often",  by  the  divination  of  love  and  sorrow,  I  have 


WlLtlAM  SMITH. 


tried  to  'conjure  ,up-'that  koine  before  my  mind !  My  bus- 
band  once  took  me  to  its  site,  but  the  good  old  house  had 
been  cut  up  into  shops,  and  the  large  garden  was  all  gone, 
—  the  large  garden,  that  had  seemed  so  large  to  the  happy 
child  playing  there  by  the  hour  "  under  the  scarlet  and 
purple  blossoms  of  the  fuchsias,"  under  the  benignant  eye, 
too,  of  a  well-remembered  old  servant,  gardener,  and 
groom,  who  kept  the  plants  and  the  sleek  discreet  horse 
"  Papa "  drove  in  his  gig  in  equal  order.  It  was  an 
every-day  delight  to  play  in  that  garden,  a  high  privilege 
to  ride  in  that  gig.  I  think  I  can  see  the  father,  very 
tall,  a  little  worn  by  asthma,  with  black  eyes  of  peculiar 
piercing  power,  and  a  certain  stateliness  and  natural 
dignity  which  were  wont  to  receive  from  officials  at  public 
places  a  degree  of  deference,  noticed  with  some  amuse- 
ment by  the  little  observant  companion  and  sight-seer. 
What  he  must  have  been  at  an  early  age  a  miniature  then 
taken  shows.  It  represents  a  fair,  yellow-haired  child  of 
about  three,  with  great  black  eyes  full  of  the  new  joy  and 
wonder  of  life,  and  a  smile  of  singular  sweetness,  of  al- 
most benignity.  No  wonder  that,  as  his  eldest  surviving 
sister  affectionately  recalls,  "  he  was  the  pet  of  both 
parents,"  though  his  exceeding  mobility  did  sometimes  a 
little  agitate  the  valetudinarian  father,  who  would  lay 
down  a  half-crown  on  the  table  and  say,  "  William,  you 
shall  have  it,  if  you  will  only  sit  still  for  ten  minutes  !  " 
A  child  with  such  an  expression  as  the  picture  shows 
would  surely  have  complied  had  it  been  any  way  pos-  , 
sible ;  but  he  did  not  remember  that  the  half-crown  was  / 
ever  won.  One  day,  when  he  was  very  small,  a  canary 
bird  belonging  to  a  sister  died,  and  was  buried  beneath  a 
flower-bush  in  the  garden ;  and  on  that  occasion,  when 
the  bright  and  restless  creature  lying  suddenly  motionless 
on  the  palm  of  some  young  hand  had  given  the  happy 
child  his  first  experience  of  wondering  sadness,  he  wrote 
his  first  verses. 


MORNING.  5 

.  .  .  l  The  cheerful  drawing-room  in  the  Hammersmith 
home  had  a  window  at  both  ends.  Round  the  one  that 
looked  into  the  garden  clustered  the  white  blossoms  or 
hung  the  luscious  fruit  of  a  surpassing  pear-tree  —  a 
swan-egg  —  the  like  of  which  was  never  met  in  later 
years.  From  the  other  window  the  children  could  watch 
the  following  spectacle,  which  my  husband  evidently  en- 
joyed recalling  in  a  notice  of  Mr.  Knight's  "  Reminis- 
cences," published  in  1864:  — 

"...  We  are  transported  in  imagination  to  a  bay- 
window  that  commanded  the  great  western  road  —  the 
Bath  Road,  as  people  at  that  time  often  called  it.  Every 
evening  came,  in  rapid  succession,  the  earth  tingling  with 
the  musical  tread  of  their  horses,  seven  mail-coaches  out 
of  London.  The  dark-red  coach,  the  scarlet  guard  stand- 
ing up  in  his  solitary  little  dickey  behind,  the  tramp  of 
the  horses,  the  ring  of  the  horns  —  can  one  ever  forget 
them?  For  some  miles  out  of  London  the  guard  was 
kept  on  his  feet,  blowing  on  his  horn,  to  warn  all  slower 
vehicles  to  make  way  for  his  Majesty's  mails.  There  was 
a  turnpike  within  sight  of  us;  how  the  horses  dashed 
through  it !  with  not  the  least  abatement  of  speed.  If 
some  intolerable  blunderer  stopped  the  way,  and  that 
royal  coachman  had  to  draw  up  his  team,  making  the 
splinter-bars  rattle  together,  we  looked  upon  it  as  almost 
an  act  of  high  treason.  If  the  owner  of  that  blockading 
cart  had  been  immediately  led  off  to  execution,  we  boys 
should  have  thought  he  had  but  his  deserts.  Our  myste- 
rious seven  were  still  more  exciting  to  the  imagination 
when,  in  the  dark  winter  nights,  only  the  two  vivid  lamps 
could  be  seen  borne  along  by  the  trampling  coursers.  No 
darkness  checked  the  speed  of  the  mail ;  a  London  fog, 
indeed,  could  not  be  so  easily  vanquished ;  but  even  the 
London  fog  which  brought  all  ordinary  vehicles  to  a  stand- 

1  The  Memoir  is  sometimes  slightly  abbreviated  in  this  reproduc- 
tion. 


6  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

still  could  not  altogether  subdue  our  royal  mails.  The 
procession  came  flaring  with  torches,  men  shouting  before 
it,  and  a  man  with  a  huge  link  at  the  head  of  each  horse. 
It  was  a  thrilling  and  a  somewhat  fearful  scene." 

The  first  sorrow  that  left  a  trace  on  my  husband's  re- 
membrance was  the  going  to  school,  at  the  age,  I  think,  of 
eight  or  nine.  He  did  not  go  far,  indeed,  but  to  the  sen- 
sitive and  much-petted  child  the  change  from  the  atmos- 
phere of  love  and  joy  that  filled  his  home  was  simply 
appalling.  '  He  was  sent  to  a  clergyman  of  the  name  of 
Elwal,  and  found  himself  surrounded  by  a  good  many 
older  boys,  who  appeared  to  him,  and  probably  were, 
boisterous  and  brutal.  At  all  events  the  little  fellow,  to 
whom  the  Bible  his  mother  so  loved  was  the  most  sacred 
of  all  things,  could  not  read  it,  could  not  kneel  night  and 
morning  beside  his  little  bed,  without  jeers  and  taunts  and 
rough  dissuasives.  He  only  read  and  prayed  the  more 
resolutely.  The  unflinching  spirit  that  throughout  life 
followed  after  truth  at  any  cost,  was  even  then  awake  in 
the  lonely  and  sorrowful  child.  Then,  too,  the  compara- 
tively coarse  fare,  the  inevitable  fat,  for  which  he  had  a 
constitutional  loathing,  somewhat  impaired  his  health. 
Yet  he  probably  kept  back  —  with  the  strange  reticence 
that  belongs  to  childhood  —  the  full  amount  of  his  unhap- 
piness,  or  he  would  never  have  been  left  at  this  school ; 
and  no  doubt,  too,  school-life  to  one  so  quick  to  learn,  so 
active  in  play,  must  also  have  had  a  pleasant  side.  .  .  . 

The  next  school  to  which  he  went  was  in  every  way  a 
contrast.  Mr.  Elwal  taught  well,  but  disregarded  —  as 
was  indeed  almost  universal  at  that  time  —  the  material 
comforts  of  his  pupils.  At  Radley,  near  Abingdon,  the 
latter  were  well  attended  to,  but  the  standard  of  learning 
was  not  high.  But  the  two  years  or  so  spent  there  were 
always  cheerfully  adverted  to.  It  might  jar  the  High 
Church  susceptibilities  of  the  present  inmates  of  Radley 
Hall  to  know  that  early  in  the  century  it  was  a  Dissent- 


MORNING.  1 

ing  school  —  the  head-master  a  Dissenter,  who  seemed  to 
have  little  vocation  for  his  office  beyond  failure  in  some 
former  business.  However,  he  had  a  fair  staff  of  mas- 
ters, and  an  amiable,  popular  wife,  who  liked  William 
Smith  to  drive  with  her  in  her  little  pony-carriage,  which 
he  appeared  to  have  liked  too.  In  fact,  at  Radley,  so 
far  as  I  could  discern,  he  did  nothing  but  what  he  liked. 
A  religious  profession  was  supposed  to  be  in  the  ascendant 
there,  would  have  insured  approval ;  one  is  not  therefore 
surprised  to  find  that  the  feeling  of  devotion,  which  oppo-  [ 
sition  had  only  stimulated,  now  retired  out  of  sight.  He 
very  soon  learned  all  that  the  masters  could  teach  him,  was 
at  the  head  of  the  school  (a  distinction  which  he  carefully 
impressed  upon  me  implied  but  mediocre  scholarship), 
and  had  his  time  almost  entirely  at  his  own  disposal.  I 
have  become  indebted  to  the  Rev.  H.  H.  Dobney  for 
a  further  glimpse  of  these  school-days.  Mr.  Dobney  was 
at  Radley  at  the  same  time,  a  younger  boy,  in  a  different 
class ;  the  personal  contact  of  the  two  was  therefore 
slight,  and  they  quite  lost  sight  of  each  other.  Yet  Mr. 
Dobney  writes  me  word  that  he  never  took  up  "  Graven- 
hurst,"  "  ever  one  of  my  favorite  books,"  or  "  Thorndale," 
"  without  thinking  of  the  William  Smith  whom  he  knew 
as  a  boy,  and  wondering  whether  their  author  could  pos- 
sibly be  he."  He  vividly  remembers  him,  "  a  lightly- 
made  boy,  not  joining  much  in  boisterous  amusements  " 
nor  "  mixed  up  in  scrapes  ;  "  but  even  then,  one  uto  whom 
it  was  natural  to  speak  with  something  of  an  almost  def- 
erential manner,"  —  one  "  who  seemed  the  student  rather 
than  the  school-boy."  Radley  was  then  a  noble  but  still 
unfinished  house,  standing  in  beautiful  grounds.  There 
was  one  room  especially  fine  in  its  proportions,  with  rows 
of  stately  pillars,  and  looking  into  the  park,  —  a  room  orig- 
inally destined  for  a  library,  but  almost  unfurnished,  and 
with  a  scanty  choice  of  books;  and  this  room  was  the 
boy's  favorite  and  undisturbed  resort.  And  among  the 


8  WILLIAM   SMITH. 

few  volumes  it  contained  he  found  Byron !  And  pacing 
up  and  down  that  pillared  room,  book  in  hand,  the  potent 
spell  wrought  in  the  young  poetic  heart.  No  sketch  of 
his  youth  could  be  faithful  that  omitted  this  Byronic 
phase.  He  has  often  described  its  sufferings  to  me,  but  I 
prefer  to  give  them  in  words  of  his  own,  written  in  1864. 
Throughout  the  long  series  of  his  articles  on  various  sub- 
jects I  can  trace  occasional  allusions  to  this  morbid  influ- 
ence :  — 

"  The  youth  of  the  last  age  were  battling  blindly  and 
passionately  against  fate,  were  full  of  gloomy  mysteries, 
great  devotees  to  beauty,  which  after  all  was  but  to  them 
the  rainbow  in  a  storm  which  they  thought  might  abate, 
but  which  never  ceased,  —  rainbow  always  upon  clouds 
which  broke  up  only  to  reunite  in  darker  masses,  —  rain- 
bow of  beauty,  not  of  hope,  incongruous  apparition  in  a 
troubled  and  chaotic  world. 

"  Our  Byronic  fever  had  more  than  one  phase  ;  some- 
times it  exhibited  itself  in  a  mere  moody  fantastical  mis- 
anthropy, combined  with  a  reckless  pursuit  of  very  vulgar 
pleasure ;  but  in  a  less  numerous  and  more  meditative 
order  of  minds  it  displayed  itself  in  a  morbid  passionate 
discontent  with  themselves  as  with  all  others.  These 
were  not  pleasure-seekers,  they  had  a  great  scorn  for 
human  life."  ...  It  is  needless  to  point  out  to  which  of 
these  two  classes  the  writer  could  ever  have  belonged. 

But  although  the  first  reading  of  Byron's  poetry  dated 
as  far  back  as  the  two  years  spent  at  Radley  school,  it 
was  later  that  the  Byronic  spirit  was  fully  developed. 
Certainly  the  germ  must  have  lain  dormant  during  the 
brief  and  happy  period  that  the  boy  passed  at  Glasgow 
College  (1821-22).  He  was  young  to  go  there — only 
fourteen  ;  but  a  brother,  eight  years  older  than  himself,  — 
his  favorite  brother  Theyre,  a  keen  logician  even  then,  re- 
markable throughout  life  for  worth  and  charm  as  well  as 

O 

intellect,  and  still  remembered  as  the  eloquent  preacher 


MORNING.  9 

at  the  Temple  Church  from  1832  to  1846  —  was  at  that  time 
a  student  at  Glasgow,  and  it  seemed  desirable  that  Wil- 
liam, who  had  evidently  absorbed  what  of  learning  Radley 
could  afford,  should  share  higher  advantages  under  his 
brother's  care. 

He  always  remembered  this  session  at  Glasgow  with 
peculiar  interest,  and  more  than  once  described  to  me  the 
passage  from  London  to  Leith,  made  in  foggy  weather  (in 
a  sailing  vessel  of  course),  the  impressions  received  on 
landing,  the  introduction  to  Scotch  collops,  and  the  am- 
brosial sweetness  of  the  first  glass  of  Edinburgh  ale.  A 
clever  student  (now  a  dignitary  of  the  English  Church) 
shared  the  lodgings  of  the  two  brothers ;  John  Sterling 
was  one  of  their  intimate  associates,  and  much  eager  con- 
versing and  debating  went  on,  to  which  I  cannot  doubt 
that  the  boy  contributed  many  an  apposite  illustration 
and  subtle  argument.  His  elder  brother  in  one  of  his 
home  letters  writes  :  "  The  opinion  which  I  have  formed 
of  William's  abilities  is  confirmed  and  increases.  .  .  .  He 
evinces  at  certain  periods  a  very  superior  capacity.  I  may 
be  mistaken,  and  I  should  be  sorry  to  strengthen  an  un- 
founded expectation ;  but  if  I  can  converse  with  him  on 
almost  any  subject  without  a  difficulty  from  his  want  of 
apprehension,  lose  sometimes  the  idea  of  a  disparity  ex- 
isting between  us,  and  forget  that  I  am  talking  to  a  boy, 
surely  I  may  be  permitted  to  infer  that  his  understanding 
is  above  the  level  of  ordinary  minds." 

It  was  now  that  for  the  first  time  William  Smith  fell 
in  with  Scotch  metaphysics,  that,  to  use  his  own  words 
in  talking  over  the  subject  with  me,  "  he  got  thinking" 
As  a  consequence,  the  old  theological  foundations  became 
gradually  disturbed,  at  first  perhaps  insensibly,  for  his 
supreme  enjoyment  was  still  found  in  hearing  Dr.  Chal- 
mers preach.  That  fervent  eloquence  always  remained 
one  of  his  most  vivid  memories.  At  the  time  I  write  of, 
the  three  friends  and  fellow-students  were  all  Dissenters, 


10  WILLIAM   SMITH. 

but  iny  husband  was  the  only  one  of  them  who  throughout 
life  not  only  firmly  adhered  in  theory  to  the  Voluntary 
system,1  but  as  a  matter  of  taste  preferred  the  simple 
Presbyterian  service.  The  large  family  in  the  Hammer- 
smith home  was  indeed  in  the  habit  of  attending  the  par- 
ish church  once  a  day,  —  the  father  had  the  old-fashioned 
Church-and-King  reverence,  —  but  it  was  in  the  Independ- 
ent chapel  that  the  younger  members  had  their  strongest 
emotions  roused.  It  is  easy  to  trace  the  influence  of  early 
associations  in  the  passage  I  am  about  to  extract  from  a 
notice  of  Sheridan  Knowles,  written  by  my  husband  in  the 
summer  of  1863  :  — 

If  a  French  actor  or  Italian  opera-singer  retires  from  the 
stage  to  a  convent  of  La  Trappe,  there  to  dig  his  own  grave  in 
silence  and  seclusion,  we  hasten  to  throw  round  the  incident  a 
halo  of  poetry.  If  we  do  not  altogether  admire  and  applaud, 
we  stand  aside  in  submissive,  respectful  attitude  ;  we  look  in 
mute  amazement  at  this  man  who  is  so  palpably  forsaking  earth 
for  heaven.  No  poetry  hovers  over  the  Dissenting  meeting- 
house. Neither  the  pew  nor  the  pulpit  of  the  Baptist  chapel 
presents  anything  attractive  to  the  imagination.  Good  Protest- 
ants as  we  are,  we  sympathize  more  readily  with  the  Trappist 
than  with  the  less  ardent  but  surely  more  rational  devotion  that 
takes  shelter  in  the  walls  of  the  little  Bethel.  Yet  this  should 
not  be.  In  reality  that  little  Bethel  may  be  the  scene  of  a  pious 
enthusiasm  as  remarkable  as  any  that  demonstrates  itself,  under 
more  poetic  circumstances,  in  the  convent  of  La  Trappe.  We 
have  but  to  throw  ourselves  into  the  heart  of  the  true  worship- 

1  Nevertheless  I  give  a  little  anecdote  which  I  owe  to  my  hus- 
band's gifted  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Weigall,  to  prove  that  long  before 
the  Glasgow  days,  indeed  at  a  very  early  age,  William  Smith  could 
look  upon  both  sides  of  a  question.  "His  brother  Theyre,"  writes 
Mr.  Weigall,  "  always  predicted  to  me  his  future  distinction.  I  re- 
member his  mentioning  as  an  evidence  of  his  quickness  that  when  he 
(Theyre)  was  driving  him  in  a  little  pony-carriage  of  rather  fragile- 
looking  construction,  kept  chiefly  for  the  use  of  his  sisters,  William 
said  to  him,  *  I  don't  like  riding  in  this  thing.  I  never  feel  secure.  I 
always  feel  as  if  I  were  being  supported  by  voluntary  contributions.' " 


MORNING.  11 

per,  and  the  most  unsightly  edifice  of  brick  and  mortar  that 
ever  glared  on  us  from  the  dusty  street  of  a  provincial  town  will 
become  invested  with  a  poetry  of  the  highest  order.  See  the 
well-regulated  methodical  tradesman  enter  such  a  building. 
Leaving  the  cares  and  gains  of  the  week  behind  him,  he  walks 
at  the  head  of  his  family  up  the  narrow  passage,  which  we  will 
not  call  the  aisle  ;  he  needs  no  verger  to  usher  him  into  his 
seat ;  his  hand  reaches  over  to  the  familiar  button  that  fastens 
the  door  of  his  pew  ;  he  opens  the  door,  lets  in  wife  and  chil- 
dren, then  establishes  himself  in  his  accustomed  corner.  He 
deals  out  from  some  secret  depository,  perhaps  from  a  drawer 
under  the  seat,  the  Bibles  and  the  hymn-books,  calf-bound,  and 
the  oldest  of  them  not  a  little  soiled  and  dog-eared.  These  he 
distributes,  and  then  prepares  for  the  morning  devotion.  One 
great  sentiment  he  more  or  less  distinctly  recognises,  —  the  senti- 
ment which,  differently  modified,  constitutes  the  essence  of 
religion  in  all  churches  and  in  all  hearts,  that  he  and  his  family 
are  then  and  there  doing  homage  to  the  Lord  of  allj  are  pledg- 
ing themselves  to  obedience  to  whatever  is  just,  and  wise,  and 
good,  because  His  ways  are  perfect,  and  He  requires  of  us,  His 
rational  creatures,  what  poor  attempts  at  perfection  we  can 
make.  After  some  interval  of  silence,  a  man  in  spotless  black 
coat  and  white  neckcloth  rises  from  the  deal  pulpit  opposite  ;  a 
square  deal  box,  with  a  reading  desk  on  it,  which  desk  has  no 
other  ornament  or  furniture  than  the  one  large  book,  on  which 
the  minister  reverently  lays  his  hand.  That  one  book  sanctifies 
the  whole  place.  Take  that  away,  and  all  is  dirt  and  dinginess. 
But  our  man  in  the  corner  of  his  pew  could  tell  you  that  from 
that  central  spot  there  has  emanated,  he  knows  not  how,  a  subtle 
influence  that  has  pervaded  the  whole  building,  so  that  its  very 
plastered  walls  are  sacred  to  him.  There  is  a  knot  in  the  un- 
painted  wood-work  of  his  pew  on  which  his  eye  has  often  rested 
as  he  followed  the  worthy  preacher.  Were  our  man  to  travel, 
and  to  be  absent  in  foreign  kingdoms,  that  knot  in  a  piece  of 
soiled  deal  would  rise  before  his  imagination,  and  suggest 
holy  memories  to  him.  His  hand  would  be  again  on  the  button 
of  that  pew,  and  he  would  prepare  himself  for  solemn  medita< 
tions.  Oh,  believe  us,  the  poetry  comes  from  within. 


12  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

To  return  to  the  youthful  Glasgow  student.  Perhaps 
nothing  can  convey  so  accurate  an  idea  of  what  he  was  at 
this  early  age  as  a  letter  written  in  most  delicate  and 
legible  characters  to  one  of  his  elder  sisters.  In  it  we 
already  see  something  of  that  blending  of  thought  and 
feeling,  of  self-control  and  reflectiveness  with  spontaneity, 
which  distinguished  the  man.  It  shows,  too,  how  happy 
and  loving  was  the  home-circle  he  was  nurtured  in  —  a 
circle,  I  have  heard  him  say,  of  which  no  member  per- 
mitted him  or  herself  an  uncourteous  tone  or  the  disre- 
spect of  personal  comment  towards  any  other.  There  was 
a  latent  fire  in  the  dark  eyes  of  all,  and  a  tacit  conviction 
prevailed  that  such  a  liberty  would  be  resented.  I  copy 
the  letter  verbatim.  It  was  written  in  the  summer  of 
1822 :  — 

MY  DEAR  ESTHER,  —  I  surely  need  not  tell  you  with  how 
much  pleasure  Selina's  letter  was  received.  Need  I  say,  I  shall 
be  glad  to  see  you  all.  With  how  much  pleasure  I  look  forward 
to  the  happy  time,  how  many  fond  anticipations,  and  how  many 
expectations  I  indulge !  You  have  lately  felt  all  these,  and 
know  them  well ;  but  you  cannot  tell  the  change  my  mind  has 
undergone.  Before  the  arrival  of  that  joy-bearing  letter,  I  had 
been  "  making  up  "  my  mind  to  spend  my  summer  at  Glasgow, 
and  perhaps  part  of  that  summer  alone.  I  say  "  making  up," 
for  it  was  a  kind  of  process,  and  one  rather  tedious  and  diffi- 
cult. For,  as  I  told  my  dear  mamma,  the  thought  would  often 
come  with  great  force,  "  How  I  should  like  to  see  them  all !  " 
Now  this  would  greatly  retard  the  process,  and  therefore  I  set 
strict  watch  over  my  thoughts  ;  and  when  they  rambled  to 
North  End,  I  checked  them,  after  a  very  short  indulgence,  for 
fear  they  should  end  in  a  desire  to  visit  that  happy  corner.  It 
has  set  all  in  a  flame.  Those  smothered  feelings  burst  forth, 
hope  and  expectation  shine  with  double  lustre,  all  is  light  and 
gladness.  And  shall  I  see  you  all  so  soon  ?  Yes,  I  shall,  I 
shall ! 

This  is  the  first  time  I  have  stopped  to  take  breath  since  I 
began  this  letter,  for,  whenever  the  subject  of  home  copies  apross 


MORNING.  13 

my  mind,  it  imparts  such  an  impulse  that  there  is  no  resisting 
it.  Perhaps  it  has  carried  me  on  with  precipitation  in  this  case. 
Sometimes  it  crosses  my  path  while  I  am  taking  a  walk,  and 
then  it  is  sure  to  make  me  take  extraordinary  long  steps,  or 
make  fantastic  leaps.  In  short,  wherever  it  comes  it  gives  an 
irresistible  stimulus,  which  no  gravity  can  withstand  and  no  will 
restrain.  But  gently !  gently,  my  pen ! 

There  is  one  little  circumstance  I  cannot  help  mentioning. 
When  Theyre  had  perused  the  letter,  and  knew  how  the  con- 
tents would  please  me,  he  put  on  a  grave  look,  and,  with  a 
solemn  manner,  read  to  me  that  part  which  contained  the  news. 
The  contrast  was  very  great,  for,  while  he  was  standing  in  this 
solemn  manner,  I  was  laughing  and  wriggling  about  the  chair, 
as  though  bewitched.  Well  then,  you  may  expect  us  the  first 
week  in  August,  at  the  latest ;  and  glad  shall  I  be  when  that 
week  comes,  for  I  do  so  want  to  see  you  all. 

No  doubt  it  will  give  you  pleasure  to  hear  that  Theyre  has 
carried  off  the  first  prize  in  the  Logic  class.  There  are  in 
every  class  a  certain  number  of  prizes  given,  and  they  are  dis- 
tributed according  to  the  votes  of  the  students.  Theyre  ob- 
tained his  unanimously.  He  also  was  successful  in  a  prize 
essay.  I  must  also  tell  you  that  the  Greek  professor  gave  me 
one  for  two  or  three  poetical  translations  I  wrote.  There  is  no 
little  ceremony  in  distributing  them,  but  I  will  not  trouble  you 
with  that. 

How  many  circumstances  are  there  which  are  constantly 
directing  our  thoughts  to  that  place  where  our  affections  are 
placed  !  The  most  trifling  thing  will  sometimes  carry  us  away 
many  miles,  and  detain  us  there  for  a  long  time.  The  other 
day,  as  I  was  demonstrating  a  proposition  (for  I  am  attending 
a  little  to  mathematics),  I  happened  to  put  the  lid  of  the  case 
of  instruments  upon  my  compass,  and,  twirling  it  round,  it  made 
a  noise  like  a  rattle.  This  rattling  immediately  reminded  me 
of  May-fair ;  it  was  but  a  step  to  North  End,  and,  when  once 
you  have  set  your  foot  there,  you  know  how  many  difficulties  to 
take  it  away  again. "  Well,  some  time  after  I  found  myself  look- 
ing intently  on  the  proposition,  and  holding  the  compass  and  the 
case  on  it  in  my  hand,  but  quite  ignorant  of  what  I  was  doing. 
I  seemed  to  have  been  roused  from  a  vision. 


14 


WILLIAM   SMITH. 


Then  follow  messages  of  love  to  the  different  members 
of  the  family,  and  a  little  significant  postcript :  "  You 
promise  you  won't  keep  me  !  "  which  proves  how  much  the 
college  life  was  appreciated.1  But  though  he  did  return 
at  the  commencement  of  the  next  session,  a  sharp  attack 
of  inflammation  of  the  lungs  soon  led  to  his  being  sent 
away  home,  and  in  the  January  of  1823  his  father  died,  at 
the  age  of  sixty-three. 

And  now  came  many  changes,  all  of  them  fraught  with 
pain.  There  was  the  loss  of  the  indulgent  father,  the 
spectacle  of  the  mother's  meek,  deep-seated  grief,  the 
break-up  of  the  cheerful  home,  and  in  addition  there  was 
the  closing  of  the  college  career,  for  the  climate  of  Glas- 
gow was  pronounced  too  severe  to  be  safely  returned  to  ; 
and  the  youth  in  whose  secret  soul  the  problems  of  the 
metaphysician  and  the  visions  of  the  poet  were  already 

1  My  husband  throughout  life  entertained  a  very  decided  prefer- 
ence for  the  Scotch  system  of  mental  training.  I  may  illustrate  this 
by  some  observations  of  his  in  an  article,  written  in  1855,  on  the  Life 
of  Lord  Metcalfe.  That  distinguished  man,  as  a  young  Oxonian, 
professed  to  "  abhor  metaphysics,"  and  in  his  journal  prayed  to  be 
delivered  from  "  the  abominable  spirit  "  of  reliance  on  reason  as  a 
guide  ;  "  blessed  reason,"  as  he  in  irony  termed  it. 

"  One  cannot  help  remarking  that  a  Scotch  youth  of  the  same  age 
might  be  equally  pious,  equally  steadfast  in  his  faith,  and  perhaps 
more  conversant  with  the  several  articles  of  his  creed,  but  he  never 
would  have  expressed  the  tenacity  of  his  convictions  in  this  manner, 
never  would  have  spoken  of  *  blessed  reason '  ironically.  ...  His 
first  and  last  boast  would  have  been  that  his  faith  was  the  perfection 
of  reason.  A  Scotch  lad,  who  had  only  breathed  the  air  of  Glasgow 
or  of  Edinburgh,  would  have  never  shrunk  from  intellectual  contest, 
or  professed  that  the  creed  he  held  and  cherished  was  not  in  perfect 
harmony  with  the  truly  blessed  reason.  He  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  proclaiming  himself  a  lunatic  in  the  public  streets,  and 
avowing  a  preference  for  a  slight  shade  of  insanity.  Such  distinc- 
tion we  cannot  help  noticing  between  the  systems  of  education  in 
England  and  Scotland  ;  but  we  have  no  intention  of  pursuing  the 
subject,  or  drawing  any  laboured  comparison  between  their  respective 
merits." 


MORNING.  15 

seething,  found  himself  destined  to  an  uncongenial  call- 
ing, that  of  the  law.  "  He  was  articled,"  I  quote  from  a 
letter  of  Mr.  WeigalFs,  "  to  Mr.  Sharon  Turner,  the  An- 
glo-Saxon historian,  who  was  by  profession  an  attorney ; 
but  the  office  routine  was  so  distasteful  to  him  that  he 
soon  solicited  Mr.  Turner  to  cancel  his  articles.  Mr. 
Turner  told  him  he  did  not  feel  justified  in  doing  so,  as 
he  did  not  consider  William,  at  that  time  the  best  judge 
of  what  was  expedient  for  him.  William  dragged  through 
the  weary  hours  he  was  required  by  his  agreement  to  spend 
in  Mr.  Turner's  office,  and  has  often  told  me  they  were 
the  most  tedious  and  profitless  in  his  existence."  When 
it  is  remembered,  too,  that  at  this  early  age  necessity  was 
laid  upon  the  earnest  seeker  after  truth  to  loose  from  the 
old  moorings  and  put  forth,  he  alone,  —  he  —  so  loving,  so 
sensitive,  so  considerate  of  the  feelings  of  others  —  alone 
on  what  then  seemed  "  a  dim  and  perilous  way,"  one  to- 
wards which,  at  all  events,  no  member  of  his  home  ever  so 
much  as  glanced,  it  need  excite  no  surprise  that  he  viewed 
this  period  of  his  youth  as  profoundly  unhappy.  He 
would  occasionally  revert  to  it,  but  I  never  encouraged 
any  reminiscence  that  cast  a  shadow  over  his  spirits.  I 
feel,  however,  that  the  following  passage  from  one  of  his 
early  works  sprang  from  personal  experience : — 

It  generally  happens  that  the  external  influences  of  daily 
scene  and  customary  actions  oppose  their  timely  resistance  to 
the  desponding  humour  of  our  early  days.  But  in  my  case  the 
outward  scene  of  life  was  such  as  to  foster  and  encourage  it.  The 
encroaching  disposition  became  sole  possessor  of  my  mind.  The 
ivy  grew  everywhere.  It  spread  unhindered  on  my  path,  it 
stole  unchecked  upon  my  dwelling,  it  obscured  the  light  of  day, 
and  embowered  the  secluded  tenant  in  a  fixed  and  stationary 
gloom.  ...  In  this  moody  condition  of  my  soul,  every  trifling 
disgust,  every  casual  vexation,  though  disregarded  of  them- 
selves, could  summon  up  a  dismal  train  of  violent  and  afflicting 
meditations.  The  first  disturbance,  the  first  ripple  on  the  sur« 


16  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

face,  soon  indeed  subsided  ;  but,  to  take  an  illustration  from 
some  fairy  tale  I  have  read,  the  pebble  was  thrown  upon  en- 
chanted waters,  and  it  roused  the  gloomy  and  tempestuous  gen- 
ius that  lay  scarce  slumbering  beneath  them. 

Yet  nothing  could  be  more  true  than  that  "  his  misan- 
thropy injured  no  one  but  its  owner."  Such  was  the  sweet- 
ness of  his  nature,  and  his  equitable  recognition  of  the 
claims  of  others,  that  I  doubt  if  his  devoted  mother,  or  any 
one  of  the  home-circle  "  to  whose  hilarity  he  conspicuously 
contributed,"  ever  suspected  that  beneath  such  a  sunlit 
smiling  surface  any  gloomy  genius  whatsoever  dwelt  and 
stirred.  A  lady,  however,  who  in  her  character  of  ac- 
quaintance may  have  observed  more  accurately  than  rela- 
tives, who  often  stand  too  near  to  see,  describes  him  at  this 
period  as  "  most  gentle  and  gracious,  but  seemingly  quite 
apart  from  the  rest  in  his  dreamy,  gentle  way."  She 
adds  :  "  Looking  at  his  face,  one  could  only  think  of  the 
wonderful  depth  and  intellect  of  his  eyes, —  this  was  some- 
thing marvellous.'* 

And  now  comes  a  period  of  which  I  can  give  scarce  any 
account,  for  to  my  husband,  whose  life  had  long  been  one  of 
abstract  thinking,  —  impersonal,  one  might  almost  say,  — 
any  attempt  to  recall  dates  was  distinctly  painful ;  and  I, 
while  gladly  garnering  any  crumbs  that  fell  for  me  from 
his  past,  was  aware  that  he  could  not,  even  had  he  tried, 
reconstruct  it  consecutively.  But  I  know  that  he  lived 
with  a  most  tender  mother,  —  a  mother  in  whjose  eyes 
whatever  William  did  was  right ;  to  whom  his  very  leav- 
ing off  attending  church  and  chapel,  though  it  might  have 
disturbed  her  in  the  case  of  others,  could  not  seem  wrong. 
I  know  that  his  first  visit  to  Switzerland,  first  sight  of  the 
Lake  of  Lucerne  and  the  glories  of  the  mountains,  was 
paid  during  an  early  period  of  youth,  while  there  was 
on  him  that  misanthropic  Byronic  mood,  in  which,  to  use 
his  own  words,  "  a  love  and  an  enthusiasm  for  nature  was 
a  compensation  for  want  of  cordial  sympathy  with  mnn, 


MORNING.  17 

not  a  related  feeling  strengthened  by  and  strengthening 
that  sympathy." 

Exactly  when  that  mood  passed  away  forever  I  cannot 
determine,  but  in  his  earliest  productions  it  is  already 
looked  back  upon  as  from  a  distance.  I  will  finally  dis- 
miss it  in  two  passages  of  his  own :  — 

"  He  who  has  read,  and  felt,  and  risen  above  the  poetry 
of  Byron,  will  be  for  life  a  wiser  man  for  having  once 
been  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  morbid  sentiments 
which  there  meet  with  so  full  and  powerful  an  expression. 
And  so  variously  are  we  constituted  that  there  are  some 
who  find  themselves  best  roused  to  vigorous  and  sound 
thinking  by  an  author  with  whom  they  have  to  contend. 
There  are  who  can  better  quiet  their  perturbed  minds  by 
watching  the  extravagances  of  a  stronger  maniac  than 
themselves,  than  by  listening  to  placid  strains,  however 
eloquent.  Some  there  are  who  seem  destined  to  find 
their  entrance  into  philosophy,  and  into  its  calmest  re- 
cesses, through  the  avenue  of  moody  and  discontented  re- 
flection." And:  "It  is  a  sort  of  moral  conversion  when 
a  youthful  mind  turns  from  a  too  exclusive  admiration  of 
Byron's  genius  to  the  pages  of  Wordsworth."  This  con- 
version in  my  husband's  case  took  place  early. 

I  have  heard  him  say  that  during  his  youth  he  was 
a  quite  rapacious  reader  of  English  and  French  literature. 
All  the  dramatists,  all  the  essayists,  all  the  historians  of 
both  countries,  in  addition  to  their  philosophical  writers, 
—  nothing  came  amiss  to  him ;  and  if  the  day  seemed  long 
in  the  lawyer's  office,  the  nights  flew  in  eager  study.  It 
was  his  custom  to  sit  up  till  three  or  four.  The  dear 
mother  must  have  had  many  an  anxious  thought  as  to  the 
effects  of  such  a  practice  on  so  sensitive  and  fragile  a 
frame,  but  she  never  seems  to  have  interfered,  even  by 
tender  remonstrance,  with  her  son's  perfect  liberty.  I  ex- 
tract a  passage  of  his  (written  in  1847)  which  is  evi- 
dently the  expression  of  a  personal  experience. 


18  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

The  student's  lamp  was  burning ;  how  calm,  how  still  is  the 
secluded  chamber  !  .  .  .  Reflection  has  her  emotions,  thrilling 
as  those  of  passion.  He  who  has  not  closed  his  door  upon  the 
world,  and  sat  down  with  books  and  his  own  thoughts  in  a  soli- 
tude like  this,  may  have  lived,  we  care  not  in  how  gay  a  world, 
or  how  passionate  an  existence,  he  has  yet  an  excitement  to 
experience  which,  if  not  so  violent,  is  far  more  prolonged, 
deeper,  and  more  sustained  than  any  he  has  known,  than  any 
which  the  most  brilliant  scenes  or  the  most  clamorous  triumphs 
of  life  can  furnish.  What  is  all  the  sparkling  exhilaration  of 
society,  the  wittiest  and  the  fairest,  what  all  the  throbbings  and 
perturbations  of  love  itself,  compared  with  the  intense  feeling 
of  the  youthful  thinker  who  has  man,  and  God,  and  eternity 
for  his  fresh  contemplations,  who  for  the  first  time  perceives  in 
his  solitude  all  the  grand  enigmas  of  human  existence  lying 
unsolved  about  him  ?  His  brow  is  not  corrugated,  his  eye  is  not 
inflamed ;  he  sits  calm  and  serene  ;  a  child  would  look  into  his 
face  and  be  drawn  near  to  him  ;  but  it  seems  to  him  that  on 
his  beating  heart  the  very  hand  of  God  is  lying. 


CHAPTER  II. 

CLOUDS. 

THE  boy's  letter  to  his  sister  brings  him  before  us  in  his 
fifteenth  year,  the  year  which  proved  to  be  the  last  of 
his  boyhood.  He  comes  before  us  again  in  the  first  of  his 
published  writings,  six  years  later.  The  intervening  pe- 
riod gave  the  decisive  stamp  to  his  life.  We  see  in  him 
at  the  beginning  a  refined  and  sensitive  nature,  its  affec- 
tions developed  and  satisfied  in  the  warm  atmosphere  of 
home,  and  its  intellect  already  stimulated  by  Scotch  the- 
ology and  metaphysics.  It  was  a  nature  that  early 
showed  its  essential  bias,  an  attraction  toward  truth, 
beauty,  and  love.  Then  came  the  rough  transplanting 
into  an  attorney's  office.  The  study  and  the  work  were 
dull  and  uncongenial ;  the  knowledge  acquired  was  dry  and 
unnutritious  ;  for  the  present,  there  was  no  recompense 
in  the  sense  of  service  rendered  to  others,  or  even  the  sat- 
isfaction of  earning  a  daily  wage ;  and  as  preparation  for 
the  future,  the  way  led  to  a  profession  which  was  hope- 
lessly unsuited  to  the  man.  The  result  of  an  outward  sit- 
uation so  repellant  was  to  throw  the  young  man  back  upon 
that  purely  interior  life,  of  fancy,  feeling,  and  specu- 
lation, to  which  by  innate  constitution  he  was  prone 
enough  without  external  incitement.  Among  the  men  of 
his  time,  Arthur  Clough  is  the  one  with  whom  it  is  most 
natural  to  compare  him.  The  two  were  alike  in  their 
thirst  for  truth  and  their  purity  of  life,  and  they  swam  in 
the  same  sea  of  thought.  But  Clough  was  happy  in  the 
circumstance  that  his  early  years  were  passed  at  Rugby 
and  at  Oxford  ;  where  along  with  his  Latin  and  Greek  he 


20  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

got  the  hardy  training  of  the  foot-ball  ground  and  the 
river,  the  grand  influence  of  Dr.  Arnold,  and  that  com- 
panionship with  fresh  youthful  spirits  which  he  so  charm- 
ingly portrays  in  the  "  Bothie."  For  him,  the  unsparing 
quest  for  absolute  truth  was  postponed  until  his  sinews 
had  been  knit  and  he  had  been  fortified  by  generous  com- 
radeships against  the  loneliness  which  besets  the  thinker. 

But  no  such  kindly  apprenticeship  fell  to  the  boy  of  our 
story.  Glasgow  College  and  Dr.  Chalmers  had  already 
set  him  to  thinking.  Such  thought  led  into  fields  infi- 
nitely attractive  to  a  mind  like  his.  Now  there  were  no 
counter  attractions,  and  the  entire  energies  of  his  nature 
were  swept  along  into  a  world  of  such  fascination,  its 
splendors  so  enthralling,  its  terrors  so  enchaining,  that 
under  its  spell  the  whole  external  world,  its  law-books,  its 
drudgery,  its  London  streets,  its  men  and  women,  and 
even  its  home  companionships,  became  in  comparison  far 
away  and  dim.  As  the  children  of  Hamelin  followed  the 
piper's  music,  so  this  boy  followed  the  mysterious  musi- 
cian whose  melodies  are  reverie  and  speculation,  and 
passed  into  a  realm  apart  from  the  workaday  world. 

There  is  nothing  to  indicate  with  certainty  the  precise 
course  of  his  early  thinking.  But  one  of  the  characters 
in  "  Thorndale  "  affords  a  clue  which  we  may  follow  with 
reasonable  confidence  that  under  the  name  of  Cyril  we 
have  in  substance,  if  not  in  form,  a  part  of  the  youthful 
experience  of  William  Smith. 

A  pious  and  affectionate  youth  may,  without  blame  on  his 
part,  commence  his  career  of  independent  thinking  by  a  rebel- 
lion against  some  of  his  most  sacred  feelings,  by  a  violence  done 
to  his  best  affections.  His  peace  of  mind  is  disturbed,  and  the 
harmony  of  the  family  circle  is  broken  by  an  invisible  enemy, 
who  has  stolen  upon  him  in  the  very  hours  of  study  and  medita- 
tion. Those  earliest  and  dearest  friendships,  as  well  as  those 
first  and  sacred  convictions,  which  should  have  lasted  him  his 
whole  life,  are  put  in  jeopardy  at  the  very  outset. 


CLOUDS.  21 

For  some  time  our  inquiring  youth  keeps  his  doubt  a  close 
prisoner  within  his  own  Bosom.  At  length,  one  day,  being 
more  daring  or  more  despondent  than  usual,  he  gives  expression, 
in  the  family  circle,  to  some  of  those  sceptical  questionings  he  has 
been  secretly  revolving.  As  soon  as  the  words  have  passed  his 
lips  —  how  those  lips  trembled  as  he  spoke  !  —  he  feels  that  it 
was  not  an  opinion  only  he  has  uttered,  but  a  defiance.  And  it  is 
not  an  answer,  but  a  reproof,  that  he  receives.  An  elder  brother 
frowns,  a  sister  weeps,  a  parent  solemnly  rebukes.  Sad  and  in- 
auspicious entrance  on  the  paths  of  inquiry.  He  retreats  into 
himself,  perturbed,  disdainful,  with  a  rankling  sense  of  injustice 
done  to  him. 

Beyond  the  family  circle  the  case  is  little  better.  In  gen- 
eral society  he  soon  learns  that  the  subject  of  religion  is  alto- 
gether inadmissible.  There  is  but  one  thing  more  distasteful  to 
well-bred  people  than  a  religious  sentiment  or  opinion,  and  that 
is  the  least  show  of  opposition^  to  it.  You  must  think  over  these 
matters  —  if  you  must  think  —  in  perfect  retirement.  The  one 
half  of  society  requires  that  you  respect  its  faith,  the  other  half 
that  you  respect  its  hypocrisy. 

.  .  .  Such  an  one,  when  I  knew  him,  was  Cyril.  A  youth 
of  more  blameless  manners  there  could  not  be.  His  parents 
were  distinguished  for  their  evangelical  piety,  and  were  de- 
lighted to  watch  the  development  of  his  ardent  and  unaffected 
devotion.  His  nature  had  entirely  responded  to  the  religious 
training  he  had  received.  How  came  doubt,  it  will  be  asked,  in 
such  a  mind  ?  What  sceptical  works  was  he  likely  to  read  ? 
And  if  he  had  been  persuaded  to  read  any  such  works,  would 
they  have  produced  any  other  impression  on  a  person  of  this  de- 
scription than  pain  and  offence  ?  Let  their  statements  or  reason- 
ings be  what  they  might,  such  a  person  would  only  have  been 
stung,  irritated,  wounded  by  them  —  not  convinced  or  shaken. 

But  the  enemy  may  approach  in  a  far  more  insidious  manner 
than  by  a  direct  attack.  His  father  took  a  great  interest  in  the 
subject  of  reformatory  punishment,  as  it  is  sometimes  called. 
(The  combination  of  reformatory  and  educational  measures  with 
punishment,  would  be  a  more  accurate  expression  for  the  object 
which  such  philanthropists  have  in  view.)  Schemes  of  prison 
discipline  formed  the  most  frequent  topic  of  conversation  at  his 


22  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

own  home.  The  house  was  full  of  books  treating  upon  this 
subject  in  every  possible  manner,  either  investigating  the  ra- 
tionale of  punishment,  or  proposing  new  methods  for  the  moral 
restoration  of  the  criminal.  In  short,  it  was  the  paternal  hobby. 
Now,  in  works  treating  on  the  subject  of  criminal  jurisprudence, 
there  will  invariably  be  intermingled  ethical  discussions  on  the 
nature  and  objects  of  punishment  itself,  and  on  the  meaning 
which  is  attached  to  such  words,  for  instance,  as  retributive  pun- 
ishment, and  of  penalty,  when  imposed  in  order  to  secure  obe- 
dience to  a  promulgated  law.  As  I  understood  him,  the  perusal 
of  these  books,  together  with  the  constant  reiteration  in  the 
family  circle  that  the  reformation  of  the  criminal  himself  was 
never  to  be  lost  sight  of  as  one  of  the  ends  of  punishment,  forced 
upon  his  mind  the  perception  of  a  strange  contrast  between  the 
ethical  principles  which  his  father  advocated  when  discoursing 
upon  this  favourite  topic,  and  the  ethical  principles  which  he  ad- 
vanced or  implied  when  he  expounded  his  Calvinistic  divinity. 
Cyril,  at  least,  could  not  reconcile  the  two.  He  could  not  help 
saying  to  himself  —  though  he  recoiled  at  first  with  horror  from 
his  own  suggestions  —  that  his  father  claimed  for  a  human  leg- 
islator principles  more  noble  and  enlightened  than  those  he  at- 
tributed to  the  Divine  Governor.  The  idea  was  at  first  repudi- 
ated ;  it  was  thrust  back  ;  but  it  would  return.  The  subject  was 
not  allowed  to  sleep,  for  every  fresh  visitor  at  the  house  called 
forth  from  his  father  an  exposition  of  what  he  deemed  to  be  the 
true  principles  of  criminal  jurisprudence.  To  punish  for  re- 
venge, he  pronounced  unchristian  and  irrational ;  he  admitted 
no  ends  for  punishment  but  the  protection  of  society  and  the 
reformation  of  the  criminal,  which  also  was  the  best  protection 
for  society ;  nor  would  he  allow  that  the  first  of  these  was  an 
end  which  could  be  legitimately  pursued  without  being  coupled 
with  the  second. 

.  .  .  That  the  future  punishments  of  God  should  have  for 
one  end  the  reformation  of  the  offender  does  not  appear  to  be 
a  heresy  of  a  very  deep  dye,  nor  one  that  ought  to  have  dis- 
turbed a  pious  mind  ;  but  it  shook  the  whole  system  of  theology 
in  which  Cyril  had  been  brought  up.  If  punishment  has  in 
itself  wise  and  merciful  ends,  if  it  is  conducive,  or  accom- 
panied by  measures  that  are  conducive,  to  the  restoration  of  the 


CLOUDS.  23 

criminal,  what  becomes  of  all  those  ideas  attached  to  the  word 
salvation,  in  which  he  had  been  educated  ?  I  only  indicate 
the  train  of  thought  awakened  in  Cyril's  mind.  Those  only 
who  have  been  educated  as  he  was  can  understand  the  terror 
and  anguish  of  heart  which  such  a  train  of  thought  brought 
with  it. 

.  .  .  The  first  murmur  of  dissent  he  ventured  to  raise 
against  the  system  in  which  he  had  been  educated  was  on  the 
doctrine  of  eternal  punishment.  It  was  the  doctrine  he  most 
frequently  discussed  with  me.  The  more  he  studied  it,  whether 
in  works  of  ethics  or  works  of  religion,  the  less  could  he  assent 
to  it.  Yet  the  denial  of  it  shook  all  the  rest  of  the  system  ;  his 
doctrine  of  Atonement  must  be  entirely  remodelled ;  in  short, 
he  was  plunged  into  the  miseries  of  doubt. 

...  To  appreciate  the  distress  of  Cyril  it  must  be  borne 
in  mind  that  he  had  been  brought  up  in  the  conviction  that  un- 
belief was  a  sin  of  the  greatest  magnitude ;  that  it  could  not 
fail  to  incur  all  the  penalties  of  extreme  guilt,  as  the  unbeliever 
was  cut  off  from  the  only  means  of  salvation.  Say  that  he  was 
wrong,  then  his  very  denial  had  sentenced  him  directly  or  indi- 
rectly to  that  final  doom  he  called  in  question.  His  unbelief 
had  incapacitated  him  from  seizing  upon  the  sole  means  of  es- 
cape. This  terrible  responsibility  was  forever  with  him.  A 
voice  would  peal  incessantly  in  his  ears,  "  You  may  be  wrong, 
and  then  "  — 

...  I  cannot  describe,  and  do  not  wish  to  describe,  the 
depth  of  terror  and  affliction  which  Cyril  felt  as  his  earliest 
faith  was  being  rent  from  him.  A  soul  athirst  for  piety  seemed 
driven  from  the  only  temple  in  which  it  could  worship.  He 
grew  restless,  gloomy,  at  times  even  morose. 

...  [At  Oxford.]  The  cloud  was  darkening  over  him.  At 
length  he  rarely  came  to  my  room.  Hearing  he  was  unwell  I 
went  to  see  him.  I  asked  him  after  his  health  ;  he  did  not  an- 
swer the  question  —  took  no  heed  of  it ;  his  thoughts  were  else- 
where. "Oh,  Thorndale!  "  he  said,  "  to  pass  long  sleepless  nights 
—  sleepless  and  in  pain  —  and  not  to  know  how  to  pray  !  "  And 
as  he  pressed  Iny  hand  he  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears. 

.  .  .  With  some  few  men  this  gloomy  contest,  carried  on 
apart  and  alone,  has  absorbed  all  the  energies  of  their  intellect. 


24  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

Coerced  into  silence,  they  gain  no  help  from  other  minds ;  the 
cloud  hangs  over  them  perpetually  ;  no  word  from  another 
disperses  it  for  a  moment ;  perhaps  they  are  ashamed  to  confess 
the  secret  terrors  they  more  than  occasionally  feel.  They  seek 
no  distraction  ;  for  them  there  is  no  oblivion ;  they  must  front 
their  enemy  with  a  steady  eye,  or  they  sink  vanquished,  and  lose 
entirely  their  self-respect.  Perhaps  there  is  no  interest  or 
pleasure  so  absorbing  as  to  shelter  them  during  one  whole  day 
from  some  recurrence  of  their  sad  and  interminable  controversy. 
They  live  on,  knowing  nothing  of  philosophy  but  its  doubts,  and 
retaining  nothing  of  religion  but  its  fears. 


CHAPTER  III. 

LIGHT    BREAKING. 

AND  how  is  our  poor  boy  to  cope  with  these  vast  prob- 
lems ?  The  bitterness  of  the  struggle  has  been  partly 
shown  in  the  passages  from  Cyril's  story.  It  is  a  com- 
plex suffering.  The  centring  of  his  deepest  interests  on  a 
topic  which  he  cannot  share  with  the  others  consigns  to 
loneliness  a  nature  framed  for  sympathy  and  tenderness. 
The  impulse  of  a  reverent  soul  toward  worship  and  ado- 
ration finds  itself  baffled,  the  glorious  image  of  its  Deity 
dissolving  into  mists  of  uncertainty.  Deepest  trouble  of 
all,  the  practical  rule  of  life,  the  chart  and  compass  for 
daily  and  hourly  guidance,  seems  lost  to  a  man  of  reli- 
gious nature  when  his  beliefs  become  unsettled.  Such 
guidance  is  sufficiently  furnished  for  many  men  by  the 
standards  of  social  usage,  of  acquired  habit,  or  of  obvious 
utility.  But  the  sensitive  and  spiritual  nature  yearns  to 
connect  its  common  acts  and  choices  with  some  lofty  and 
abiding  reality;  dead  reckoning  will  not  serve  its  pur- 
pose, it  must  take  observation  by  the  heavenly  bodies. 

So  great  were  the  troubles  into  which  the  youth  fell. 
And  it  was  not  a  weakness  or  a  fault  that  involved  him  in 
his  difficulties,  but  the  highest  quality  in  him.  He  obeyed 
a  voice  which  bade  him  unsparingly  ask,  "  What  is  true  ?  " 
Even  that  impulse  of  worship  which  is  the  heart  of  piety 
laid  on  him,  by  the  whole  force  of  its  austere  sanctity,  the 
requirement  that  the  object  of  his  worship  be  a  worthy 
one,  that  it  be  a  reality  and  not  a  delusion. 

How  fares  it  then  with  this  boy  as  he  ripens  early  into 
manhood  under  the  stress  of  such  questionings?  Des- 


26  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

tined  he  clearly  is  to  spend  his  life  in  thinking  his  way 
just  so  far  into  the  order  of  the  universe  as  his  faculties 
and  opportunities  will  carry  him.  But  how  meantime  is 
his  personal  life  to  go  on  ?  Must  he  wait  until  he  has 
thought  out  the  ultimate  problems  of  existence,  or  been 
persuaded  to  accept  some  other  man's  scheme,  before  he 
can  have  scope  for  his  piety,  guidance  for  his  conduct, 
and  love  answering  his  love  ? 

The  purpose  which  he  set  before  himself,  or  rather  which 
was  inexorably  set  before  him,  was  the  search  for  truth. 
But  along  with  this,  including  it  and  transcending  it,  lay 
a  problem  of  another  sort  —  to  fit  his  own  personality 
rightly  and  truly  to  its  place  in  the  order  of  things.  In 
modern  speech,  the  individual  must  adjust  himself  to  his 
environment ;  in  the  older  phrase,  man  must  learn  and  do 
the  will  of  God.  The  main  business  of  every  man,  even 
the  philosopher,  is  not  to  explain  the  universe,  but  rightly 
to  live  his  own  life. 

The  story  of  Cyril  reveals  much  as  to  the  general  nature 
of  the  youth's  first  conflict.  But  to  Cyril  is  assigned  a 
wholly  different  issue  from  that  which  happened  in  the  case 
of  the  mind  that  conceived  him  ;  for  Cyril  finds  refuge  and 
peace  in  the  Church  of  Eome.  To  William  Smith  that 
road  was  quite  impracticable.  The  directions  in  which 
his  thought  took  shape  and  ripened  toward  conviction  we 
shall  trace  hereafter.  But  the  really  critical  stage  in  his 
personal  development,  the  process  deeper  than  all  specu- 
lative thought,  we  may  safely  believe  to  be  that  to  which 
his  wife  refers,  when  she  tells  of  his  passing  from  the  in- 
fluence of  Byron  to  that  of  Wordsworth. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Byron  and  Wordsworth 
were  altogether  the  decisive  factors  in  the  business.  They 
counted  for  something.  But,  beyond  what  they  were  in 
themselves,  they  stood  as  the  types  in  literature  of  two 
different  attitudes  of  character;  and  it  was  the  change 
from  one  attitude  to  the  other  which  was  so  important  and 


LIGHT  BREAKING.  27 

decisive  that  the  word  "  conversion  "  might  well  be  given 
to  it.  It  was  a  process  which  the  poems  of  Wordsworth 
doubtless  did  much  to  help,  but  which  was  also  forwarded 
by  the  strong  inward  bent  of  the  young  man.  It  was  as 
when  the  compass-needle,  after  vibrating  under  conflicting 
attractions,  swings  at  last  with  the  unseen  current,  and  is 
thereafter  held  tremulous  but  true  to  the  northward  line. 

Byron  stands  for  the  rebellion  of  the  soul  against  a 
world  that  does  not  please  it.  He  craves  freedom,  beauty, 
joy;  he  finds  restraint,  ugliness,  trouble.  He  betakes 
himself  to  resistance  and  to  scorn.  He  finds  the  gratifi- 
cations that  he  craves  prohibited ;  and  where  the  law  that 
restrains  him  may  be  broken,  he  snatches  at  the  forbidden 
fruit ;  where  the  law  is  above  his  power,  he  is  sullen  and 
bitter.  He  is  partly  but  not  wholly  of  the  earth,  earthy ; 
moral  beauty  and  grandeur,  as  well  as  physical,  have  a 
charm  for  him ;  he  admires,  but  he  will  not  worship. 
Practically  it  is  himself  that  he  sets  as  God,  his  own 
mixed  being,  with  head  of  gold,  body  of  iron,  and  feet  of 
clay,  and  because  the  world  of  nature  and  of  man  is  not 
subject  to  him,  he  stands  rebellious  and  scornful. 

The  music  of  his  verse,  the  splendor  of  his  imagery,  the 
rapid  dramatic  action,  catches  the  fancy  of  our  youth 
while  he  is  yet  a  school-boy.  Then  later,  when  he  too 
finds  his  world  an  unfriendly  place ;  when  his  thirst  for 
joy  and  freedom  is  mocked  ;  when  the  object  of  his  wor- 
ship fades  into  uncertainty ;  when,  looking  on  the  splen- 
dors of  the  Alps,  he  feels  his  own  spirit  clouded,  then  lie 
finds  in  Byron's  defiant  temper  a  mood  congenial  to  his 
own.  He  too  is  a  rebel.  There  is  no  visible  outbreak  ; 
he  does  his  task  work ;  at  home  he  may  be  often  silent, 
but  he  speaks  110  wounding  word.  Libertinism  of  the 
senses  is  repugnant  to  him.  But  in  silence  he  protests 
against  this  whole  cruel  order  of  things ;  against  a  God 
who  hides  himself,  and  against  a  universe  which  tantalizes 
its  children  with  glimpses  of  a  good  it  forbids  them  to 
grasp. 


28  WILLIAM   SMITH. 

The  characteristic  of  Wordsworth  is  the  spirit  of  obedi- 
ence and  reverence.  He  faces  life  not  with  a  demand 
that  it  shall  yield  him  pleasure,  but  with  the  wish  to  know 
his  true  place  and  do  his  rightful  part.  Are  irksome 
tasks  laid  upon  him  ?  He  will  meet  them  faithfully  ;  and 
so  meeting  them,  Drudgery  is  transfigured  before  his  eyes, 
and  becomes  Duty,  "stern  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God." 
He  looks  out  upon  the  world  of  humanity  and  of  nature 
with  sympathy  and  awe.  This  glorious  universe,  vaster 
far  is  its  significance  than  to  minister  ease  to  him, 
or  give  applause  to  his  merit.  His  is  the  secret  of  pos- 
session, a  self-forgetfulness  that  appropriates  by  sympathy 
the  good  of  others.  Because  he  brings  to  the  contempla- 
tion of  Nature  a  mind  which  seeks  no  homage  for  itself, 
and  watches  her  beauty  and  listens  for  her  message,  un- 
troubled by  the  turmoil  of  selfish  passion,  therefore 
Nature,  whom  Byron  finds  "  heedless  and  inaccessible,"  1 

1  Wordsworth  gathers  from  this  visible  beauty  of  the  creation 
more  than  a  pleasure  and  delight,  more  even  than  that  sentiment 
of  romantic  devotion  which  other  poets  have  rapturously  pro- 
claimed ;  he  detects  in  it  a  communion  and  an  intelligent  influence, 
passing  in  all  ages  between  the  Spirit  of  the  universe  and  heart  of 
man.  He  reads  in  the  cloud,  touched  by  the  light  of  heaven,  an  un- 
utterable love.  Here  is  the  keynote  by  which  the  variable  human 
being  may  at  all  times  tune  his  mind,  if  he  will,  to  be  in  harmony 
and  accordance  with  that  "  great  idea  "  which  the  world  was  framed 
by  Divine  Wisdom  to  answer.  No  man  has  so  exalted  and  refined 
this  sentiment.  Beauty  is  with  him  a  piety.  In  the  sombre  seclu- 
sion of  a  metropolis  I  have  read  his  verse  and  worshipped.  I  am 
transported  to  the  eternal  hills,  to  that  first  and  enduring  temple 
which  mountain  and  the  sky  have  reared,  and  where  it  needs  not  that 
any  perpetual  flame  be  kept  alive  upon  the  altar  by  the  hand  of  man, 
for  the  whole  scene  is  one  animated  type,  placed  there  for  the  com- 
munion of  the  human  family  with  heaven  and  with  each  other  ;  and 
the  Spirit  of  God  is  felt  moving  in  the  midst.  .  .  .  Byrori,  too,  could 
extol  that  beauty  in  strains  of  unsurpassed  magnificence,  but  with 
him  a  love  and  enthusiasm  for  nature  was  a  compensation  for  want  of 
cordial  sympathy  with  man,  not  a  related  feeling  strengthened  by 
and  strengthening  that  feeling.  With  him  Nature  was  a  goddess 


LIGHT  BREAKING.  29 

shows  herself  to  this  humble  worshipper  as  a  divine 
mother.  Her  glory  is  sacramental  to  him ;  it  is  like  the 
visible  face  of  God. 

Was  it  as  he  read  some  page  of  Wordsworth,  or  was  it 
in  lonely  communing  with  himself  and  the  Unseen,  we 
know  not,  but  there  came  to  the  troubled  young  spirit  a 
voice,  "  Peace,  be  still !  "  There  came  to  him,  grew*  upon 
him,  wrought  itself  through  his  obedience  into  an  inward 
law  of  his  nature,  the  impulse  to  accept  the  order  of  the 
universe,  without  waiting  to  comprehend  it ;  to  faithfully 
discharge  the  near  and  known  duty ;  to  look  reverently 
upon  all  beauty  and  grandeur  as  the  manifestation  of 
some  eternal  good.  He  heard  and  obeyed  the  command 
to  submit,  to  obey,  to  revere. 

Of  that  command,  borne  in  upon  a  spirit  like  his  by  in- 
fluences more  and  finer  than  can  be  distincly  traced,  yet 
Wordsworth  stood  as  the  most  articulate  interpreter. 
Under  such  teaching,  the  young  man  ripens  out  of  the 
stage  of  rebellion  and  bitterness  into  sweetness  and 
humility.  He  has  still  much  of  suffering  and  perplexity 
to  encounter.  It  is  not  given  him  to  emerge  at  once  into 
such  tranquil  sunlight  as  shines  on  Wordsworth's  pages, 
and  there  to  abide.  But  he  is  learning  a  disposition  and 
habit  which  will  stand  him  in  stead  through  all  sorest  need. 
His  is  one  of  those  natures  endowed  with  too  much  sensi- 
bility, with  too  unsparing  a  desire  of  truth,  to  allow  an  easy 
or  a  tranquil  life.  But  he  is  coming  now  into  true  relation 
with  the  world  in  which  he  is  to  live  and  serve,  and  with 
that  awful  Power  which  his  eyes  and  heart  strain  to  dis- 
cern. He  has  taken  obedience  and  reverence  for  his 
guides. 

which  he  placed  in  hostile  contrast  to  Humanity,  and  for  this  very 
reason  was  the  more  willing  to  adore.  His  imagination  endowed  her 
with  a  quite  separate  existence,  apart  alike  from  God  and  man.  In 
the  sort  of  chivalrous  homage  he  paid  to  this  sovereign  mistress  of 
his  soul,  he  delighted  to  pronounce  her  heedless  and  inaccessible  to 
the  presence  or  the  prayers  of  her  poor  human  worshippers.  — 
William  Smith,  in  Blackwood,  March,  1841. 


30  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

In  the  poetry  of  Wordsworth  he  found  an  aid,  and 
under  its  influence  he  came  not  only  into  more  of  in- 
ward peace,  but  into  a  larger  intellectual  outlook.  But 
Wordsworth's  was  not  a  religion  or  a  philosophy  to  wholly 
satisfy  him.  On  the  one  hand,  Wordsworth  steadily 
holds  the  traditional  creed  of  Christianity  and  the  Church 
of  England.  That  creed  has  no  very  conspicuous  part  in 
his  writings  ;  but  his  unquestioning  acceptance  of  it  gives 
to  his  mind  a  settled  position,  and  a  freedom  to  survey 
man  and  nature  as  it  were  at  leisure.  On  the  other  hand, 
his  own  peculiar  philosophy  is  mystical ;  he  accepts  seen 
things  as  symbols  of  higher  things  unseen.  Why  he  so 
accepts  them,  he  does  not  try  to  explain.  It  is  so  that 
they  present  themselves  to  his  mind  ;  and  to  one  order  of 
minds,  such  acceptance  is  as  natural  and  self-evident  as 
the  operations  of  the  physical  senses.  But  the  mind  with 
which  our  story  deals,  though  endowed  with  something  of 
this  illuminated  vision,  included  also  a  more  searching 
and  exacting  quality.  It  was  acute  and  analytical,  bent 
to  trace  every  stream  to  its  earliest  source,  to  test  all  so- 
called  intuitions  by  rigid  laws  of  evidence,  and  to  go  back 
of  every  assertion  with  an  inexorable  WTiy  ?  This  quality 
was  doubtless  stimulated  by  the  training  in  Scotch  meta- 
physics ;  it  must  have  been  fostered,  too,  by  long  study  of 
the  civil  law  ;  and  it  accorded  with  the  principles  of  inves- 
tigation of  physical  science,  which  have  played  so  great  a 
part  in  our  day.  In  short,  there  were  combined  in  this 
man  the  traits  of  the  poet,  the  saint,  the  metaphysician, 
and  the  scientist.  In  the  consummate  and  perfect  man, 
the  ideal  product  of  humanity,  all  these  characteristics 
would  unite,  and  form  a  perfect  harmony.  But  the  effort 
to  harmonize  their  workings  in  an  actual  man,  of  flesh  and 
blood  limitations,  is  an  arduous  business.  It  made  of  life 
an  arduous  business  for  William  Smith. 

We  get  an  incidental  glimpse  of  help  given  him  toward 
one  great  forward  step,  toward  emancipation  from  that 


LIGHT  BREAKING.  31 

fear  of  Divine  wrath  menacing  the  doubter  which  haunted 
his  first  departure  from  the  faith  of  his  fathers.  In  one 
of  his  earliest  publications  he  makes  cordial  mention  of 
Shaftesbury's  "  Characteristics."  That  book  has  the  mild, 
rational,  moderate  tone  which  is  perhaps  the  best  trait  of 
the  English  philosophical  writers  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. It  does  not  probe  the  great  questions  closely  home, 
according  to  our  later  ideas  ;  but  it  introduces,  instead  of 
the  lurid  atmosphere  of  polemical  controversy,  an  air  of 
good  temper  and  of  composure,  akin  to  that  with  which 
truth  is  followed  in  the  dialogues  of  Plato.  There  is  one 
passage  which  bears  so  directly  upon  the  fear  that  had 
shadowed  the  soul  of  the  young  doubter  that  it  is  worthy 
of  quotation  here. 

We  must  not  only  be  in  ordinary  good  humour,  but  in  the 
best  of  humours,  and  in  the  sweetest,  kindest  disposition  of  our 
lives,  to  understand  well  what  true  goodness  is,  and  what  those 
attributes  imply  which  we  ascribe  with  such  applause  and 
honour  to  the  Deity.  We  shall  then  be  able  to  see  best  whether 
those  forms  of  justice,  those  degrees  of  punishment,  that  temper 
of  resentment,  and  those  measures  of  offence  and  indignation, 
which  we  vulgarly  suppose  in  God,  are  suitable  to  those  original 
ideas  of  goodness  which  the  same  Divine  Being,  or  Nature  un- 
der Him,  has  implanted  in  us,  and  which  we  must  necessarily 
presuppose  in  order  to  give  Him  praise  or  honour  in  any  kind. 
This  is  the  security  against  all  superstition :  To  remember  that 
there  is  nothing  in  God  but  what  is  God-like,  and  that  He  is 
eitber  not  at  all  or  truly  and  perfectly  good.  But  when  we  are 
afraid  to  use  our  reason  freely,  even  on  that  very  question, 
*  Whether  He  really  be  or  not'  we  then  actually  presume  Him 
bad,  and  flatly  contradict  that  pretended  character  of  goodness 
and  greatness,  whilst  we  discover  this  mistrust  of  his  temper, 
and  fear  his  anger  and  resentment,  in  the  case  of  this  freedom 
of  inquiry. 

We  have  a  notable  instance  of  this  freedom  in  one  of  our 
sacred  authors.  As  patient  as  Job  is  said  to  be,  it  cannot  be  de- 
nied that  he  makes  bold  enough  with  God,  and  takes  his  Provi- 


32  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

deuce  roundly  to  task.  His  friends,  indeed,  plead  hard  with 
him,  and  use  all  arguments,  right  or  wrong,  to  patch  up  objec- 
tions, and  set  the  affairs  of  Providence  upon  an  equal  foot. 
They  make  a  merit  of  saying  all  the  good  they  can  of  God,  at 
the  very  stretch  of  their  reason,  and  sometimes  quite  beyond  it. 
But  this,  in  Job's  opinion,  is  flattering  God,  accepting  of  God's 
person,  and  even  mocking  Him,.  And  no  wonder.  For  what 
merit  can  there  be  in  believing  God,  or  his  Providence,  upon 
frivolous  and  weak  grounds  ?  What  virtue  in  assuming  an 
opinion  contrary  to  the  appearance  of  things,  and  resolving  to 
hear  nothing  which  may  be  said  against  it  ?  Excellent  charac- 
ter of  the  God  of  truth !  that  He  should  be  offended  at  us  for 
having  refused  to  put  the  lie  upon  our  understandings,  as  much 
as  in  us  lay  ;  and  be  satisfied  with  us  for  having  believed,  at  a 
venture,  and  against  our  reason,  what  might  have  been  the 
greatest  falsehood  in  the  world  for  anything  we  could  bring  as  a 
proof  or  evidence  to  the  contrary  ! 

The  gradual  progress  of  the  young  man's  thought  will 
be  unfolded  hereafter.  But,  from  the  time  he  leaves  his 
Byronic  passion  behind  him  with  his  boyhood,  during  all 
his  years,  in  whatever  of  struggle  and  perplexity  he  may 
be  involved,  he  is  always  in  heart  and  life  a  worshipper. 
The  sun  is  often  behind  a  cloud  ;  he  vainly  strains  his 
eyes  to  discern  its  orb ;  but  its  softened  light  suffuses  the 
heavens  and  earth  about  him.  A  passage  in  one  of  his 
latest  writings  describes  in  the  character  of  Clough  that 
quality  which  was  the  accepted  law  of  his  own  life. 

The  only  thing  absolutely  essential  to  him  was  the  approval 
of  his  own  conscience.  This  man,  so  free  in  speculation,  who 
had  sounded  all  the  perilous  depths  of  human  thought,  who  had 
cast  off  dogmas  as  the  serpent  casts  his  skin,  and  with  as  little 
thought  of  returning  to  them  again,  was  a  very  slave  to  the  sen- 
timent of  duty.  The  thing  that  was  right  —  the  doing  of  this 
stood  to  him  in  the  place  of  ambition ;  and  it  had  sometimes  to 
stand  in  the  place  of  doctrine  too.  Faith  in  the  right  —  this 
never  forsook  him  ;  nor  in  that  Being  whom,  when  the  reason 
refuses  to  clothe  in  any  mythological  or  objective  form,  it  still 
finds  —  even  in  itself ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 
"THE  WOOL-GATHERER." 

THE  last  two  chapters  have  portrayed  in  grave  hues  the 
young  man's  thought  and  life.  But  with  the  sombre 
strain  there  was  interwoven  in  him  an  element  of  pure  joy 
and  even  of  light-heartedness.  The  noble  delight  of  the 
thinker  is  portrayed  in  the  passage  which  his  wife  quotes 
(page  32).  There  were,  too,  lighter  kinds  of  intellectual 
resource,  on  which  he  feasted  with  healthy  youthful  ap- 
petite. It  was  something  very  different  from  theological 
problems  which  engaged  his  pen  in  his  earliest  published 
writings. 

In  the  year  1828  a  weekly  literary  paper  called  "  The 
Athena3um,v  which  had  lately  made  an  unnoticed  begin- 
ning in  London,  was  observed  to  take  on  a  new  quality, 
and  to  show  fine  and  promising  work,  as  of  vigorous 
though  youthful  hands.  It  had  come  into  the  control  and 
editorship  of  two  young  men,  fresh  from  Cambridge  Uni- 
versity, John  Sterling  and  Frederick  Denison  Maurice. 
Among  the  contributions  of  this  first  year  was  a  series  of 
eight  papers,  on  various  topics,  signed  "  A  Wool-Gath- 
erer." The  writer  was  William  Smith,  then  twenty  years 
of  age.  The  first  paper,  "  On  Periodicals,"  pleads  the 
cause  of  this  species  of  literature  in  a  style  which  plays 
easily  between  the  grave  and  the  humorous.  The  maga- 
zine, says  the  writer,  is  not  to  be  despised  because  it 
scarcely  aims  at  more  than  a  transient  interest.  "  It  is  the 
perpetual  fountain,  whose  life  and  whose  beauty  are  not  to 
be  found  in  any  one  drop  of  the  ever-changing  liquid,  — 
a  fountain  whose  boast  it  is  to  be  continually  exhibiting 


34  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

under  a  graceful  form  some  portions  of  the  collected  and 
otherwise  stagnant  waters  of  learning."  For  his  own 
part,  he  even  disclaims  the  usual  contempt  for  an  an- 
tiquated periodical,  and  finds  in  it  a  curious  interest. 
"  There  the  writer  stands,  in  the  same  attitude  of  defiance 
or  astonishment  into  which  he  was  surprised  by  the  popu- 
lar excitement  of  the  time;  he  is  still  gazing  with  awe 
and  wonder  upon  the  ghost  which  the  rest  of  the  world 
has  long  since  discovered  to  have  been  a  white  sheet  upon 
an  ivy  bush."  As  to  the  broad  question  of  the  periodical 
form,  he  admits  there  is  a  drawback  in  the  tendency  of  the 
paper  to  interrupt  the  social  chat  of  the  family ;  and  for 
this,  he  says :  "  I  would  propose  it  as  a  remedy  that 
everybody  should  make  it  a  stipulation  in  the  marriage 
settlement  '  that  the  said  A.  or  B.  shall  not,  nor  will,  dur- 
ing the  hours  of  breakfast,  tea,  or  supper,  or  for  the  space 
of  sixty  minutes  after  each  and  every  of  the  said  meals 
(the  said  sixty  minutes  to  be  calculated  by  the  minute 
hand  of  the  outside  clock  of  the  nearest  parish  church, 
provided  that  the  said  clock  be  going,  and  be  in  thorough 
repair,  certificate  of  which,  etc.)  —  read  or  peruse,  or  ap- 
pear to  be  reading  or  perusing,  any  gazette,  journal,  maga- 
zine, etc.' '  In  conclusion,  the  essayist  disavows  any 
expectation  of  imitating  either  the  excellences  or  defects 
of  the  eighteenth-century  writers  whose  forms  and  machin- 
ery he  has  adopted.  "  The  playful  wit  and  elegance  of 
the  lighter  parts  of  the  4  Tatler  '  and  '  Spectator,'  I  have 
never  dreamed  of  copying  ;  neither  will  I  wilfully  imitate 
the  manner  of  their  more  serious  papers,  —  a  manner 
more  polite  than  honest,  in  no  danger  of  being  ruffled  by 
zeal,  or  made  dogmatic  by  too  strong  a  conviction  or  too 
cogent  a  reason." 

The  second  paper  is  "On  Enthusiasm."  It  justifies 
the  general  distaste  for  so-called  "  perfect  characters,"  in 
literature,  on  the  ground  that  that  is  no  real  or  human 
perfection  in  which  "  every  passion  is  under  the  calm  and 


"THE  WOOL-GATHERER."  35 

apathetic  sway  of  reason."  Tranquillity  is  to  be  obtained 
"  not  by  moderating  all  passions  ;  it  is  to  be  sought  only 
by  delivering  ourselves  up  to  one.  There  is  no  garden 
virtue,  which  can  lie  on  beds  of  roses  in  indolence  and 
security ;  but  there  is  a  virtue  to  whose  more  enraptured 
gaze  the  wilderness  becomes  glad,  and  the  desert  blossoms 
as  the  rose." 

The  next  paper,  "  On  Martyrs,"  is  a  plea  for  toleration 
of  free  thought  and  speech,  on  the  highest  grounds.  "  All 
martyrs  ought  to  be  looked  upon  not  as  sufferers  for  this 
dogma  or  for  that,  not  as  supporters  of  this  religion  or  the 
other,  but  as  common  sufferers  in  one  and  the  same  cause, 
that  of  liberty  of  opinion  and  of  speech."  The  writer  ex- 
tols the  historic  martyrs  of  England  in  a  strain  in  which 
he  might  be  sure  of  his  readers'  sympathy.  "  They  fought 
the  good  fight.  They  fought  it  often  blindly,  not  know- 
ing the  true  end  of  their  labours,  and  little  disposed,  per- 
haps, if  they  had,  to  contemplate  it  with  pleasure.  Still 
it  is  to  that  phalanx  of  men  who  in  any  age,  in  any  coun- 
try, for  any  opinion,  have  braved  the  cruelty  of  bigots, 
that  we  owe  the  mental  freedom  we  now  enjoy.  If  there 
remains  anything  to  perfect  it,  let  us  not  sleep."  When 
this  was  written,  it  appears,  a  Mr.  Taylor  had  been  im- 
prisoned for  attacking  Christianity ;  and  the  journals 
which  had  condemned  the  imprisonment  had  generally 
done  so  on  the  ground  that  it  gave  undue  conspicuousness 
and  importance  to  an  advocate  of  contemptible  opinions. 
But  the  issue  involved,  says  the  essayist,  is  a  far  more 
serious  matter ;  it  touches  the  most  important  question 
that  can  be  agitated,  namely :  Whether  men  may  or  may 
not  reason  openly  against  religion.  "  I  would  not,"  he 
declares,  "  stop  the  mouth  of  the  direst  ranter  who  ever 
dealt  damnation  to  a  world  of  which  he  knew  nothing." 

Another  paper  is  "  On  Mystics,"  —  a  name,  we  are  told, 
coming  into  frequent  use,  generally  in  a  vague  and  often 
in  an  opprobrious  sense,  but  which  is  defined  thus :  "  I 


36  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

apprehend  that  he  is  strictly  a  mystic  who  arrives  at  any 
sentiment  or  belief  by  any  other  than  those  modes  of  rea- 
soning common  to  all  mankind.  It  is  not  necessary  that 
this  belief  should  be  unintelligible,  or  peculiar  to  himself ; 
it  is  enough  that  he  has  reached  it  by  a  method  which  the 
rest  of  the  world  cannot  pursue.  All  inspired  people,  all 
who  appeal  to  the  influences  of  some  spiritual  agent  upon 
their  minds,  all  who  discover  in  their  own  consciousness 
what  others  look  in  vain  for  in  theirs,  however  good,  how- 
ever fortunate,  however  sincere,  they  may  be,  are  essen- 
tially mystics.  Be  it  remembered,  however,  that  in  attach- 
ing this  name  to  them  I  do  not  charge  them  with  any 
deception  or  any  error.  I  imply  only  by  it  that  with 
regard  to  that  subject  on  which  their  consciousness  has 
been  otherwise  informed,  it  is  impossible  to  reason  with 
them ;  as  impossible  as  to  argue  upon  external  objects 
with  one  who  should  have  more  senses  than  five.  Our 
paths  cannot  be  the  same,  but  they  will  not  be  very  diver- 
gent ;  and  wishing  each  other  '  God  speed  '  we  part  as  did 
Faithful  and  Christian,  of  whom  the  readers  of  Buiiyan 
will  remember  that  the  one  took  the  upper  road  and  the 
other  the  lower  road,  but  both  travelled  toward  the  same 
point."  And  with  this  friendly  farewell  the  author  turns 
to  eulogize  a  work  of  a  widely  different  school,  Shaftes- 
bury's  "  Characteristics."  He  defends  Shaftesbury 
against  the  censure  he  has  received  for  applying  the  term 
"  beauty  "  to  virtue  ;  and  urges  that  the  "  good  humour  " 
on  which  he  insists  in  religious  discussion  describes  not  a 
frivolous  state  of  mind,  but  that  composure  and  benignity 
which  are  the  most  favorable  conditions  for  finding  the 
truth. 

An  essay  on  "  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek  "  contains  this 
passage  :  "  To  have  conceived  and  portrayed  such  a  char- 
acter was  the  highest  effect  of  humour.  There  was  a  time 
when  this  word  seems  to  have  been  applied  only  to  a 
lower  species  of  wit,  but  lately  humour  has  been  allowed  to 


"  THE  WOOL-GATHERER."  37 

signify  the  most  refined  and  delicate  perception  of  all  that 
is  grotesque  in  human  nature,  and  in  this  sense  has  been 
justly  considered  as  the  most  incontestable  privilege  of 
genius.  Wit  is  the  sport  that  an  active  mind  makes  with 
its  knowledge;  humour  is  the  giving  out  to  others  the 
original  impression  as  made  by  the  object  itself.  Wit 
ranges  wide,  and  collects  from  the  most  distant  quarters  ; 
humour  is  the  result  of  a  more  tranquil  susceptibility, '  the 
harvest  of  a  quiet  eye.'  Wit  combines  things  apparently 
the  most  dissimilar ;  humour  is  occupied  with  things  as 
they  are.  Wit  is  the  property  of  the  intellect  alone  ;  hu- 
mour requires  as  well  a  high  cultivation  of  the  affections. 
An  ordinary  person  may  make  an  occasional  witticism ;  a 
clever  one  may  write  a  good  comic  scene ;  but  to  create 
such  a  personage  as  Aguecheek  requires,  and  is  the  sure 
test  of,  the  highest  qualities  of  mind." 

The  most  striking  of  these  papers  is  one  which  contains 
an  imaginary  letter  from  Chatterton  to  his  sister,  on  the 
evening  before  his  suicide.  He  bids  farewell  to  her,  as  he 
is  about  to  take  leave  of  a  world  in  which  he  can  find 
nothing  to  hold  him.  He  tells  her  that  except  for  the  gen- 
tle affection  of  a  few  like  her,  who  have  loved  him  only 
out  of  the  goodness  of  their  hearts,  which  did  not  perceive 
how  poor  a  thing  he  is,  he  has  found  no  ties  with  his  kind. 
He  is  bidden  to  love  his  fellow-beings,  but  if  he  is  to  in- 
terpret humanity  by  the  only  one  he  knows,  —  himself,  — 
he  must  find  it  not  lovable,  but  despicable.  "  Take  it 
not  to  heart  that  a  starved  and  miserable  reprobate,  who 
enjoyed  neither  the  pleasures  of  this  world  nor  the  visions 
of  another,  who  could  protect  himself  neither  from  the 
rack  of  passion  nor  from  the  pangs  of  sense,  should  quit  a 
life  in  which  he  had  become  utterly  incapable  of  giving 
or  receiving  happiness.  Some  hand,  perhaps  his  own,  has 
mingled  a  bitter  with  the  waters  ;  separated  again  it  can- 
not be  ;  and  to  turn  from  them  with  disgust,  is  it  not  par- 
donable, is  it  not  wise  ?  I  shall  watch  through  the  night 


38  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

till  the  dawn  of  another  day  breaks  upon  me.  This  intel- 
lectual being  which  I  have  so  often  execrated  grows  pre- 
cious on  the  eve  of  its  extinction  ;  as  the  sun  which  stood 
still  in  heaven  that  the  slaughter  of  the  Amorites  might 
be  continued  would  be  beautiful  in  its  setting,  even  to  the 
remnant  of  that  afflicted  host  which  all  day  long  had 
cursed  its  unrelenting  light.  There  seems  to  be  an  unus- 
ual serenity  in  the  night,  and  the  stars  shine  with  a  softer 
and  more  spiritual  lustre.  I  feel  as  I  gaze  upon  them 
how  easy  it  is  for  men  to  persuade  themselves  of  the  hap- 
piness of  future  worlds.  Fancies  all  —  we  know  nothing. 
Why  do  we  dare  to  hope  ?  Why  do  we  stoop  to  fear  ? 

..."  I  have  no  aim  —  then  what  should  gladden  me  ? 

I  have  no  love  —  then  wherefore  should  I  live  ? 
I  have  no  visions  in  eternity, 

And  my  own  soul  is  dark  and  fugitive. 

..."  There  rests  in  me  no  misanthropic  gall, 

Nor  have  I  shunned,  as  some  have  done,  my  kind, 

But  midst  the  crowd  there  was  not  one  of  all 
Who  could  my  struggling,  sympathies  unbind. 

..."  I  blame  not  them  —  the  fault,  the  guilt  is  mine, 

My  discontent  breeds  ever  from  within, 
And  if  I  now  in  solitude  repine, 

It  is  that  others  should  not  hear  the  din." 

The  series  concludes  with  a  paper  on  "  The  Present  and 
the  Future,"  of  which  these  sentences  indicate  the  tone : 
"  The  great  object  of  man  is,  or  ought  to  be,  the  perfec- 
tion of  his  moral  character ;  and  although  it  may  be 
necessary  that  to  be  fully  convinced  of  this  he  should 
have  looked  abroad  upon  the  future,  yet,  the  object  once 
recognized,  he  can  only  effect  it  by  entrenching  himself 
within  the  present.  .  .  .  Men  are  taught  to  expect  in 
some  future  time,  in  some  distant  place,  the  heaven  which 
they  ought  to  seek  now  in  their  own  bosoms.  .  .  .  Let 
him  limit  himself  to  the  hour ;  let  him  live  by  the  day  ; 
let  him  think  honestly  and  feel  honestly  now  ;  and  it  will 


"THE  WOOL-GATHERER."  39 

soon  come  that  the  morrow  will  take  care  for  itself.  With 
the  philosopher,  as  with  the  libertine,  the  present  hour  is 
worth  all  the  rest." 

The  impression  which  these  papers  would  probably 
make  upon  one  having  no  knowledge  of  their  author  is 
that  of  a  disciplined  maturity.  They  show  a  fine  but 
tempered  ardor,  and  a  mingled  firmness  and  delicacy  in 
thought  and  style.  In  the  letter  under  the  name  of  Chat- 
terton,  skilfully  veiled  by  one  and  another  device  of  dra- 
matic construction,  the  writer  was  expressing  the  tragic 
side  of  his  own  life.  This  was  a  nature  exquisitely  attuned 
to  beauty,  to  harmony,  to  all  finest  aspirations  and  de- 
sires, —  but  a  nature  which  had  not  yet  found  a  work  to 
engage  its  energy,  a  creed  to  satisfy  its  aspirations,  or  a 
companionship  to  fill  its  heart.  He  hungered  for  the  so- 
ciety of  a  kindred  spirit,  and  such  spirits  are  very  rarely 
to  be  met.  Companionship  less  perfect  and  ideal  might 
yet  have  consoled  and  strengthened  him.  But  he  was 
perpetually  drawn  apart  from  those  around  him  by  the 
fascination  of  an  inward  life  which  they  could  not  share  ; 
and  something  like  over-refinement  held  him  back  from 
the  homely  contact  with  men  in  every-day  experiences, 
through  which  a  robust  nature  may  penetrate  to  interior 
wealth  and  true  comradeship. 

But  the  profound  melancholy  which  is  disclosed  in  this 
paper  should  be  understood  as  but  one  mood  or  phase  of 
a  life  which  had  very  different  experiences.  It  was  not  a 
miserable,  and  it  was  far  less  a  weak,  mind  that  produced 
these  essays,  evincing  so  much  of  tranquillity,  of  delight 
in  the  sublimities  and  the  humors  of  the  world,  of  moral 
soundness  and  health.  Even  in  the  sadness  is  "  Elysian 
beauty,  melancholy  grace."  He  has  not  come  face  to  face 
with  unveiled  Truth,  but  Truth  has  breathed  into  him  her 
own  spirit.  He  has  not  found  the  love  he  craves,  but  he 
has  grown  worthy  to  be  loved.  For  he  has  practised  well 
the  greatest  lesson  man  can  learn  —  the  lesson  of  self- 
command. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"WILD  OATS  —  A  NEW  SPECIES." 

AT  twenty  years  of  age,  the  young  man  had  thus 
showed  himself  already  no  mean  proficient  in  the  noblest 
of  arts,  and  his  literary  success  was  sufficient  to  open  to 
him  the  society  of  the  scholarly  and  thoughtful,  if  he  chose 
to  enter  there.  His  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Weigall,  says  the 
Memoir,  told  in  after  years,  what  William  Smith  did  not 
choose  to  tell  for  himself,  that  John  Sterling's  father,  the 
44  Thunderer  "  of  the  "  Times,"  called  to  congratulate  him 
on  the  success  of  his  young  kinsman,  and  declared,  in  his 
ardent  Irish  fashion,  that  "  such  pure  and  elegant  English 
had  not  been  written  since  the  days  of  Addison."  He 
was  invited  to  join  the  Union  Debating  Society.  "  I  ac- 
companied him,"  Mr.  Weigall  writes  in  1873,  "more 
than  once  to  the  Union  debates.  I  remember  one  occasion 
especially  on  which  John  Stuart  Mill  was  in  the  chair. 
There  were  present  on  that  evening  Mr.  Roebuck,  Mr.  H. 
L.  Bulwer  (afterwards  Lord  Bailing),  Mr.  Romilly  (the 
present  Lord),  Sir  Henry  Taylor  (author  of  "  Philip  Van 
Artevelde  "),  and  William.  ...  I  never  on  any  other 
occasion  heard  such  an  eloquent  debate.  William  spoke 
chiefly  in  reply  to  Sir  H.  Taylor  —  very  forcibly,  but  not 
with  his  usual  gentleness." 

Here,  one  would  have  said,  were  the  omens  of  an  active 
and  distinguished  career.  The  young  knight  had  shown 
his  mettle,  not  only  in  letters,  but  in  the  manly  jostle  of 
debate.  He  had  fallen  in  company  with  such  strong  and 
promising  young  spirits  as  Sterling  and  Maurice  and  Mill. 
Equipped  with  power  of  thought,  of  love,  of  self-control : 


"WILD   OATS  — A   NEW  SPECIES."  41 

having  already  won  a  hearing ;  with  generous  companion- 
ship at  his  command,  —  what  was  to  hinder  his  playing  a 
stirring  part  in  the  leadership  of  the  time  ? 

But  he  was  already  under  the  spell  of  the  enchantress 
who  was  to  lead  him  by  far  different  paths  from  those  of 
stirring  leadership.  Her  name  was  Solitude.  The  fasci- 
nation of  his  own  thoughts  perpetually  withdrew  him  from 
the  society  of  his  kind.  He  was  haunted  by  visions  of 
ideal  beauty  and  questionings  about  absolute  truth.  Such 
themes  absorbed  and  possessed  him ;  they  wrapt  him  away 
from  that  homely  and  matter-of-fact  earth  on  which  men 
are  wont  to  hold  intercourse  with  each  other  in  striving 
or  serving.  To  those  about  him  he  often  seemed  like  one 
in  a  dream ;  while  to  his  own  consciousness  he  was  living 
in  a  world  of  intense  reality,  which  yet  he  felt  to  be  set 
apart  by  some  strange  impalpable  barrier  from  the  world 
of  visible  realities. 

But  the  life  of  thought  and  imagination  in  the  indi- 
vidual tends  to  cut  its  own  channel  of  communication 
with  the  actual  world.  That  channel  is  self-expression  in 
literature.  "  Every  reflective  man,"  says  William  Smith, 
"  may  be  set  down  as  at  heart  an  author,  whether  he  has 
yielded  or  not  to  the  seductive  impulse.  Some  intention, 
though  it  may  be  most  vague  and  remote,  to  write 
mingles  itself  with  the  efforts  of  every  man  who  from 
reading  has  been  taught  to  think" 

There  are  three  productions  of  William  Smith's  which 
date  from  the  period  between  his  twentieth  and  thirtieth 
years.  Of  his  first  prose  work  "  Ernesto :  a  Philoso- 
phical Romance,"  his  wife  tells  us  that  it  was  written 
"  much  about  this  time  "  —  apparently  soon  after  "  The 
Wool-Gatherer,"  but  was  only  published  in  1835,  as  the 
last  volume  of  "  The  Library  of  Romance,"  edited  by 
Leitch  Ritchie.  It  was  with  some  difficulty,  she  tells  us, 
that  she  prevailed  upon  her  husband  to  give  her  a  copy 
of  this  early  production,  "  the  very  story  of  which  he  had 


42  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

utterly  forgotten,  and  never  cared  to  glance  over.  Imma- 
ture he  no  doubt  was  right  in  pronouncing  it,  but  it 
abounds  in  thoughtful  and  eloquent  passages.  There  is 
in  it  the  promise  of  '  Thorndale.'  ' 

It  is  not  until  eight  years  after  "  The  Wool-Gatherer  " 
that  we  find,  in  1836,  a  little  volume  put  forth  containing 
two  poems.  They  illustrate  what  had  been  the  workings 
of  the  young  man's  heart  in  the  intervening  time.  One 
of  them,  entitled  "  Solitude,"  is  evidently  a  direct  tran- 
script from  experience.  Two  passages  will  show  its 
quality :  — 

Oh,  there  is  rapture  in  this  thoughtful  calm  ! 

I  see  the  utmost  summit  of  the  cliff, 

Lone  in  the  azure  —  an  eternal  rest  ! 

I  see  the  bounding  waters  at  my  feet 

To  and  fro  rushing  —  an  eternal  change  ! 

And  here  am  I,  a  spirit  between  both, 

Poised  with  the  mountain,  with  the  wave  afloat, 

Embracing  all  things,  finding  in  them  all, 

Their  rest  or  motion  — an  eternal  peace  ! 

.  .  .  Fast  fills  my  heart 

With  spirit  of  benevolence  —  that  sheds 

A  second  dawn  of  beauty  on  the  world, 

Brightens  the  sky  with  benison  to  man, 

Tempers  the  wind  with  charitable  thought, 

Yea,  in  the  cloudy  chariot  of  the  storm 

Sees  a  sweet  shape,  close  folded  in  soft  plumes, 

That  prompts  its  thundering  speed.     Creeps  the  moist  mould 

No  living  thing  so  dull,  but  its  dull  joy 

Shall  be  a  joy  of  mine  ;  walks  not  in  heav'n, 

With  step  reflected  in  its  golden  floor, 

Bright  form  angelic,  but  the  spirit  of  love 

Can  hither  bring  me  of  its  happiness. 

Fair,  lone  acacia,  midway  down  the  cliff, 

That  on  thy  platform,  like  a  beauty  veiled, 

Stands  with  droopt  head  before  the  azure  dome, 

Thus  ever  stand,  —  thus  motionless,  —  and  I 

Will  share  the  while  thy  voiceless  piety. 

Ye  pair  of  sea-birds,  who  with  clanging  wings 

So  neighbourly,  have  made  the  general  air 


"WILD   OATS  — A   NEW  SPECIES."  43 

A  home  for  only  two  —  oh,  wheel  again 
Around  my  head,  again  your  circling  flight ! 
And  still  as  falls  that  faint  and  piercing  cry, 
Will  I  partake  the  sympathy  it  speaks. 
Ye  little  children,  yonder  on  the  beach, 
Twining  with  restless  arms  incessantly 
Each  other's  neck — glad  of  one  scanty  vest 
To  make  a  cloak  for  both  —  consulting  still 
How  ye  may  closer  sit  —  oh,  do  not  fly 
Ye  little  social  pair  !  but  let  me  here 
Still  see,  unseen,  and  love  though  not  beloved. 
—  Ah  happy  man  !  the  fisherman  at  eve 
Who  raising  high  in  air  with  outstretched  arms 
His  laughing  burden,  shall  with  kisses  snatched 
From  your  soft  lips  his  boisterous  toil  repay  ! 


One  beating  heart  ta'  en  from  the  hive  of  life, 

What  doth  it  here  ?     What  fellowship  can  find 

With  nature  all-sufficient  to  herself  ? 

Oh,  that  a  human  hand  —  a  human  voice, 

With  lightest  pressure  of  my  listless  palm, 

With  simplest  utterance  in  my  vacant  ear, 

Might  stir  again  to  unaccustomed  smile 

My  solitary  features,  sunk  I  feel 

To  torpid,  slow,  and  desolate  regard  ! 

What  was  my  crime  ?     What  horrid  guilt  was  mine, 

That  I  was  banished  here  ?     Unhappy  fool  ! 

'T  was  thy  own  sentence  —  thou  thyself  wert  judge, 

And  this  thy  choice  felicity. 

Beauty,  melancholy,  self -imprisonment,  the  same  note 
runs  through  the  whole.  The  other  poem,  "  Guidone,"  is 
a  drama ;  and  in  the  dramatic  form,  the  variety  of  char- 
acters, and  the  action  of  the  story,  we  see,  in  contrast  with 
"  Solitude,"  the  effort  to  break  away  from  lonely  musing, 
to  mingle  with  and  portray  the  world's  life  of  action  and 
passion.  But  the  world  here  mirrored  is  a  very  troublous 
one.  Upon  the  gentle  and  sensitive  spirit  which  looks  out 
on  the  fray,  it  is  the  terror,  the  confusion,  the  tragedy, 
which  makes  the  deepest  impression.  Two  distinct  stories 


44  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

are  brought  together  in  "  Guidone,"  with  little  dramatic 
unity.  In  the  one,  a  youth  is  roused  from  dreamy  seclu- 
sion by  a  mutual  love,  which  yields  him  an  ecstasy  intense 
but  brief,  and  followed  by  complication  and  wreck.  With 
this  is  coupled  an  outlaw,  in  whom  wrong  -  doing  has 
changed  the  calm  ponderings  of  serene  philosophy  into 
visions  of  terror  and  emotions  of  despair,  and  who  at  last 
by  an  act  of  forgiveness  regains  the  sense  of  peace  and 
hope.  Of  this  drama  the  author  says  that  it  was  "  writ- 
ten without  the  most  remote  reference  to  the  theatre,  and 
that  it  aims  at  exhibiting  states  of  mind  rather  than  indi- 
vidual character,  and  pretends  to  no  interest  of  plot  or 
story."  It  contains  many  passages  which  by  their  beauty 
tempt  to  quotation,  but  the  strain  of  sadness  and  intro- 
spection is  closely  interwoven  with  the  whole.  There  are 
phrases  and  thoughts  that  sink  into  the  memory.  The 
drama  once  begun  can  scarcely  be  laid  down  unfinished 
by  any  thoughtful  reader.  The  ear  and  the  imagination 
are  charmed,  and  thought  is  deeply  stirred.  The  defects 
of  imperfect  structure  and  of  excessive  melancholy  are 
obvious.  Evidently  it  is  the  outcome  of  a  nature  too 
deeply  self-involved.  The  mind  casts  on  every  object  the 
hues  of  its  own  introspection.  Lover,  outlaw,  hermit, 
each  is  enmeshed  in  speculation  and  self-consciousness. 
The  real  earth  of  action  and  passion  and  struggle  is  seen 
invested  in  exaggerated  terrors,  because  the  spectator  is 
too  much  aloof  from  it  to  share  the  throb  and  glow  which 
to  the  actors  make  good  the  pains. 

This  of  the  book,  —  and  what  of  the  writer  ?  His  his- 
tory at  this  period  can  in  no  way  so  well  be  inferred  as 
from  a  chapter  of  professed  fiction,  written  some  four 
years  after  the  publication  of  "  Guidone."  A  reference  by 
his  wife  to  two  incidents  as  autobiographical,  and  a  multi- 
plicity of  internal  evidence,  show  that  the  paper  called 
"  Wild  Oats  — a  New  Species,"  in  "Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine "  for  June,  1840,  published  anonymously,  was  essen- 


"WILD   OATS  — A    NEW  SPECIES.1'  45 

tially  a  chapter  from  William  Smith's  own  experience.  Its 
title  alludes  to  the  intellectual  vagaries  in  which  a  man 
may  waste  his  youth.  Its  spirit  is  somewhat  indicated  in 
one  of  its  sentences,  referring  to  "  the  youth  given  over  to 
the  fascination  of  verse  and  the  delusion  of  fame,"  and  the 
self -portrayal  which  he  may  make  at  a  later  day.  "  Some- 
times a  bitter  self -derision,  that  seeks  to  resent  itself  on 
early  follies,  sometimes  a  lurking  tenderness  for  past 
hopes  and  aspirations,  will  quicken  the  pencil ;  and  a  sub- 
ject contradictory  in  itself  is  not  unfairly  treated  in  this 
contradictious  humour."  Yet  the  satire  which  runs  through 
most  of  the  narrative  can  scarcely  be  called  bitter :  it  is 
with  a  subtle  blending  of  kindness  and  derision  that  the 
man  rehearses  the  experience  of  his  younger  days.  The 
words  in  which  he  introduces  the  teller  of  the  story,  whom 
he  names  Howard,  are  referred  to  by  his  wife  as  exactly 
fitting  his  own  character. 

We  knew  Howard,  the  subject  of  the  following  sketch ;  we 
knew  him  intimately.  He  was  indeed  of  a  peculiarly  open  and 
candid  disposition,  and  at  once  revealed  to  you  whatever  was 
passing  in  the  innermost  recesses  of  his  mind.  Yet  he  was  not 
social  in  the  same  degree  that  he  was  frank  and  confiding. 
When  in  your  company  he  would  let  you  see,  without  the  least 
distrust  or  reserve,  the  very  working  of  his  mind,  in  all  its 
strength  and  weakness,  and  in  all  that  inconsistency  of  purpose 
and  conclusion  which  invariably  attends  upon  men  of  over-quick 
feelings,  and  which,  for  their  own  credit's  sake,  they  may  learn 
to  conceal,  but  seldom  in  reality  to  overmaster  or  prevent,  —  he 
would  do  this  naturally,  without  egotism,  and  seemingly  without 
designing  it ;  but  though  he  was  thus  genial  and  open  in  your 
company,  he  was  not  apt  to  seek  your  society.  He  would  forget 
you  if  you  suffered  him. 

This  man,  who  has  become  a  successful  lawyer,  meets  a 
friend  of  earlier  years,  and  in  an  after-dinner  confab  tells 
his  story,  —  a  story  of  which  we  give  the  most  character- 
istic passages  :  — 


46  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

The  wildest  rake  never  spent  his  energies  more  wastefully 
than  I  have  mine ;  but  if  the  rake,  when  reformed,  will  some- 
times congratulate  himself  on  that  knowledge  of  the  world 
which  his  wildness.  procured  for  him,  I  think  that  I,  with  some- 
what better  reason,  may  console  myself  for  wasted  years  and 
miserable  hours,  by  recalling  that  knowledge  of  the  intellectual 
life  which  my  own  intellectual  wanderings  have  purchased. 

I  think  when  you  first  knew  me,  I  was  the  poet  —  of  imagi- 
nation all  compact.  It  was  not  quite  clear  to  me  whether  I 
should  rise  to  great  celebrity  in  my  lifetime  ;  but  that  I  should 
secure  a  name  with  posterity,  even  now  I  blush  at  the  recollec- 
tion, I  had  no  doubt  whatever.  .  .  . 

The  young  poet,  amidst  all  his  high  and  generous  emotions, 
and  he  is  always  generous  to  a  folly,  is  in  many  respects  obnox- 
ious to  ridicule ;  and,  what  is  worse,  his  quick  sensibility  makes 
him  feel  that  he  is  so.  An  extreme  sensitiveness,  incompatible 
with  a  free  and  open  intercourse  with  society,  and  which  shrinks 
from  that  rude  but  wholesome  rivalry  which  in  the  arena  of  life 
everywhere  encounters  us ;  this,  and  an  intense  anxiety  after  a 
species  of  renown  the  most  precarious  and  most  disputable, 
present  to  us  a  character  which,  whatever  points  of  interest  it 
may  reveal,  is  surely  the  most  uneasy  and  discomfortable  that 
ever  mortal  was  called  upon  to  sustain.  ...  It  is  his  aim  and 
his  nature  to  cultivate  a  delicacy  of  feeling  and  a  curious  re- 
finement of  expression,  which,  though  pleasing  infinitely  to  him- 
self, and  in  certain  moods,  and  in  less  measure,  to  others  also, 
yet  oftentimes  will  sound  very  simple,  strange,  or  extravagant 
when  uttered  aloud,  man  to  man,  in  the  broad  light,  and  amidst 
the  stir  of  this  busy  and  hard-working  world.  He  finds,  as 
one  of  the  tribe  has  told  us, — he  finds  his  muse  to  be  "in  crowds 
his  shame,  in  solitude  his  boast."  From  crowds  he  therefore  re- 
coils, to  solitude  he  flies.  Amidst  the  ordinary  transactions  of 
life,  in  all  that  men  call  business,  he  feels  himself  an  utter 
stranger,  —  nerveless,  helpless,  with  a  painful  repugnance  to 
take  his  share  in  anything  that  bears  the  appearance  of  strug- 
gle or  collision,  which  is  quite  inexplicable  to  persons  of  robust 
and  vigorous  understandings.  Lulled  by  the  music  of  his  verse, 
he  loses,  he  foregoes  all  active,  energetic  purpose.  He  can  only 
think,  and  feel,  and  write. 


"WILD   OATS  — A    NEW  SPECIES:1  47 

Such  a  one  was  I.  How  vivid  to  my  memory  at  this  mo- 
ment are  those  moody  walks  along  green  lanes  which  I  used 
daily  to  take,  courting  as  much  of  solitude  as  a  residence  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  London  could  afford.  With  eyes  directed  to 
the  ground,  I  paced  slowly  along,  or  else  stopping  before  the 
hedge  or  the  green  bank,  to  observe  some  insect  or  the  leaves  of 
a  plant,  my  thoughts  would  become  implicated  in  the  poetic 
theme  on  which  I  was  engaged,  and  there  I  would  stand,  forget- 
ful of  all  else,  till  I  had  fitted  together  to  my  satisfaction  the 
words  of  some  intractable  verse.  This  done,  I  would  start  off 
with  sudden  alacrity  ;  at  such  moments  I  would  snap  my  fingers 
at  the  world  as  one  who  had  found  a  treasure.  .  .  . 

The  fulness  of  time  came,  and  my  poem  was  published  — 
well  thou  knowest  with  what  startling  effect  upon  the  world. 
Not  a  single  copy  sold  !  It  was  duly  advertised,  and  editors 
were  favoured  with  its  perusal  gratuitously.  Not  a  single  word 
was  written  on  it,  good  or  bad  !  One  does  not  quite  suddenly 
give  up  the  idea  that  one  is  a  poet  and  has  a  genius  ;  but  this 
experiment  was  so  very  satisfactory  that  at  the  end  of  a  few 
months  I  had  resigned  forever  this  very  glorious  and  most  la- 
mentable delusion.  I  took  a  solemn  farewell  to  poetry.  Look- 
ing over  my  remaining  manuscripts,  I  selected  a  few  fragments, 
which  still  retained  some  merit  in  the  eyes  of  their  author; 
these,  which  consisted  of  mere  scraps  of  loose  paper,  I  placed 
within  the  leaves  of  a  copy  of  the  printed  poem ;  the  rest  I  con- 
sumed. The  volume,  thus  additionally  enriched  for  oblivion,  I 
folded  up  in  parchment,  sealed,  and  deposited  in  an  iron  chest, 
where  our  family  papers  were  kept.  The  whole  of  the  impres- 
sion besides,  amounting  to  between  two  and  three  hundred  vol- 
umes, I  ordered  home  from  the  publisher.  Going  into  the  gar- 
den, I  dug  with  my  own  hands  a  profound  pit,  and  there  I  laid 
the  new  uncut  volumes,  arranging  them  in  even  piles  just  as 
regularly  as  they  would  have  stood  on  a  bookseller's  counter. 
Then,  with  most  vigorous  handling  of  the  spade,  I  shovelled  in 
the  damp  earth,  and  pressed  it  hard  upon  them.  Thus  I  buried 
my  poetic  offspring,  and  turned  again  towards  the  world  to  seek 
what  now  it  had  to  offer  me. 

Nor  did  any  one  ever  turn  from  a  grave  in  sadder  or  more 
desolate  condition  than  I  from  this  mock  burial.  .  .  .  Some 


48  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

intention,  though  it  may  be  most  vague  and  remote,  to  write, 
mingles  itself  with  the  efforts  of  every  man  who  from  reading 
has  been  taught  to  think.  For  my  own  part,  I  found  that  in 
resigning  all  aim  of  authorship,  I  had  resigned  half  the  luxury 
of  thought.  I  found  to  my  cost,  how  intimately  the  pleasure  or 
purpose  of  literary  enterprise  had  combined  with  my  most  soli- 
tary cogitations.  I  could  still  enjoy,  I  said  to  myself,  those  sen- 
timents of  which  I  wrote,  without  telling  them  to  the  world. 
Alas  !  when  I  reverted  to  them  again,  I  was  returning  to  a 
country  which  had  been  laid  waste  in  my  absence.  The  fleet- 
ing thought,  why  should  I  arrest  or  retain  it  ?  I  had  no  longer 
to  make  it  permanent  in  my  verse.  Every  mood  of  my  mind, 
every  feeling,  seemed  now  indeed  smit  with  transiency,  and  to 
rush  past  into  sudden  oblivion  —  the  record  of  my  life  was  no 
longer  to  be  kept  —  the  light  and  shifting  sand  would  not  bear 
my  footmark  —  henceforth  I  should  be,  at  each  moment  of  my 
existence,  as  if  I  had  never  been  till  then.  .  .  . 

You  came  upon  me  again  about  two  years  after,  and  you 
found  me  immersed  in  the  profundities  of  philosophy.  From 
poetry  to  metaphysics  seems  a  great  stride.  But  in  reality  it  is 
not  so.  We  are  led  into  metaphysical  lucubrations  by  those 
problems  of  thought  which  are  most  exciting  of  all,  and  most 
likely  to  attract  the  poetic  temperament,  the  mysterious  ques- 
tions of  free-will  and  fate,  of  immortality  and  the  divine  nature. 
These  directly  conduct  us  unto  what,  without  this  connection, 
would  indeed  be  a  scene  of  more  weariness  and  vexation.  For 
myself,  I  seemed  to  have  left  the  shore,  and  all  sight  of  shore, 
and  in  some  little  cock-boat  to  be  rising  and  falling  amidst 
swelling  waves,  which  hid  all  prospect  except  their  own  change- 
ful and  yet  monotonous  forms.  Instead  of  labouring  within  a 
definite  circle  of  thoughts,  where  not  only  some  intelligible  ideas 
can  be  mastered,  but  where  knowledge  is  felt  to  be  a  sort  of 
wealth,  a  possession  for  which  men  respect  you,  I  had  launched 
forth,  regardless  of  every  personal  consideration  of  whatever  de- 
scription, and  thrown  my  spirit  loose  and  self-abandoned  on  a 
vast  sea  of  subject,  which  I  had  no  visual  power  to  embrace  or 
to  overlook.  Nor  was  this  sort  of  philosophy  enough,  it  seemed, 
to  perplex  and  confound ;  but  theories  of  society,  and  Utopian 


"WILD   OATS  — A    NEW  SPECIES."  49 

projects  for  the  reconstruction  of  the  world  on  an  altogether 
better  plan,  were  added  to  my  labours 

These  modes  of  thought,  on  the  one  hand,  —  this  obstinate  in- 
quiry into  the  incomprehensible,  into  mysteries  which  lie  without 
the  circle  of  nature,  this  constant  peering  over  the  boundary  ' 
wall  of  our  mundane  habitation  into  the  eternal  stillness  be- 
yond ;  and,  on  the  other,  this  painful  search,  almost  equally 
vain,  after  a  given  possible  condition  of  human  society  which 
shall  solve  the  problem  that  lies  between  man's  existence  and 
God's  benevolence  —  have  their  use,  I  doubt  not,  and  a  noble 
use  ;  but  it  is  very  easy  to  have  more  of  them  than  enough.  .  .  . 
I  seemed  separated  from  the  world  of  action  by  a  magic  circle 
which  I  could  not  overpass.  However,  though  I  could  not 
break  the  circle,  I,  by  dint  of  thinking,  raised  myself  higher  in 
it.  I  attained  a  certain  calm  position,  whence  I  could  at  all 
events  survey  the  world  with  equanimity.  I  by  degrees  inured 
myself  to  the  dubiety  and  indifference  of  philosophy,  and  en- 
deavoured to  satisfy  the  propensity  for  something  more  genial 
and  distinct,  by  a  very  cordial  sympathy  with  all  good  senti- 
ments and  good  faiths  as  they  exist  in  other  men. 

I  used  to  boast  that,  while  I  could  analyze  with  the  most 
severe  anatomist  of  thought,  I  could  also  re-combine,  nor  had 
forgotten  how  to  admire  the  revived  compound  ;  and  that  the 
very  habit  of  penetrating  into  the  secret  operations  of  the  mind 
taught  me  to  enter  with  full  and  unembarrassed  sympathy  into 
all  its  boldest  flights,  into  all  the  daring  dreams  and  faiths  of 
humanity.  I  knew  well  what  the  imagination  was,  and  re- 
spected it ;  I  knew  well  that  middle  region  of  the  air,  neither 
earth  nor  heaven,  where  the  meteors  form  and  play,  —  meteors 
which  are  still  to  be  admired,  though  neither  credited  nor 
feared.  Sentiments  the  most  dreamy,  thoughts  the  most  va- 
grant, feelings  the  wildest  and  most  conflicting,  I  knew  them 
all,  could  claim  or  dismiss  them  at  will.  Whether  it  were  that 
lucid  enthusiasm  of  a  lettered  imagination,  whereby  we  partake 
of  the  rapture  of  strong  feelings,  though  our  own  lives  are  calm 
and  serene ;  or  whether  it  were  the  solemn  mood,  speculative  or 
religious,  chanting  hope  or  a  dirge  over  the  human  race,  I  could 
feel  it  all,  respect,  and  participate.  And  thus  I  walked  along 
the  level  line  of  reason,  yet  not  above  humanity.  .  .  . 


50  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

At  some  such  explosion  as  this  it  was  that  you  most  irrever- 
ently burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter.  Then,  suddenly  checking 
your  mirth,  you  very  gravely  said,  shaking  that  long  head  of 
thine,  "  This  won't  do,  Howard.  This  is  worse  than  ever. 
When  you  were  riding  your  hobby,  though  it  were  ever  so  cursed 
a  one,  though  it  were  even  of  Pegasian  breed,  you  made  some 
way,  or  at  all  events  had  a  way  you  wished  to  go ;  but  now  that 
you  have  not  even  got  a  hobby  to  mount,  I  cannot  tell  what  is  to 
become  of  you.  Have  you  really  no  better  stuff  to  make  a  life 
of  than  this  super-refinement  of  philosophy  ?  Do  you  expect  to 
remain  '  there  standing  where  we  cannot  soar,'  merely  looking 
on,  just  thinking  of  us  all,  or  rather  viewing  all  things  as  they 
are  reflected  in  a  sort  of  mirror  which  you  have  fixed  up  for 
yourself  on  that  serene  altitude  ?  God  help  thee  !  I  say." 

Even  you,  when  you  uttered  these  ill  bodings,  had  little  ex- 
pectation how  soon  they  were  to  be  justified,  or  by  how  slight 
and  gentle  a  hand  I  was  to  be  dashed  from  my  elevation. 
There  came  to  visit  us  the  daughter  of  an  old  friend  of  the 
family,  a  captain  who  had  retired  into  Devonshire  to  make 
his  half-pay  extend  over  the  expenses  of  the  whole  year.  She 
was  neither  the  most  beautiful,  nor  the  most  witty,  nor  the  most 
accomplished  of  her  sex  ;  but  she  was  wonderfully  pleasing,  con- 
stantly cheerful  and  amiable,  with  a  genuine  frankness  of  man- 
ner quite  delightful.  I  suppose  that,  in  my  conversations  with 
Juliana,  which  grew  to  be  frequent  enough,  it  was  I  who  bore 
the  chief  part,  yet  it  seemed  to  me  that  from  her  alone  all  the 
conversation  really  sprung.  Had  I  been  asked,  I  should  have 
attributed  all  the  merit,  if  merit  of  any  kind  there  was,  all  that 
was  curious  or  refined  in  our  dialogue,  all  its  mirth  and  pleas- 
antry and  feeling,  entirely  to  her. 

The  period  of  her  visit  flew  like  magic.  She  returned 
home.  The  day  of  her  departure  passed  long  and  heavily.  I 
smiled  at  myself,  and  anticipated  forgetfulness  and  tranquillity 
on  the  morrow.  The  morrow  came,  and  the  day  after,  but  they 
brought  neither  forgetfulness  nor  tranquillity,  but  many  new 
trains  of  thought,  simple  enough,  yet  disquieting  in  the  extreme. 
If  to  love  it  is  necessary  to  believe  all  beauty  and  all  amiability 
centred  in  one  woman,  I  was  certainly  not  in  that  predicament. 
But  the  charming  social  intercourse  which  had  been  suddenly 


"WILD  OATS  — A   NEW  SPECIES."  51 

broken  up  had  made  a  revelation  to  me  of  what  existed  in  my 
own  heart,  which  it  seemed  impossible  again  to  forget.  I  could 
not  follow  her.  I  could  not  marry.  For*  the  first  time  in  my 
life  I  knew  that  I  was  poor. 

And  now  there  rushed  upon  me  at  once,  as  if  up  to  that 
moment  I  had  been  stone-blind,  the  vision  of  the  real  world.  I 
saw  it  as  it  stood  in  relation  to  me.  I  stood  face  to  face  with  it. 

0  God !  how  I  felt  the  utter  loneliness  of  that  moment !     I  had 
spent  my  days  in  weaving  a  miserable  screen-work  between  me 
and  the  sole  happiness  of  life.     I  had  forfeited,  I  had  thrown 
away,  I  had  lost  forever,  that  only  boon  which  seemed  to  justify 
the  providence  of  God  in  the  creation  of  this  world.     You,  my 
friend,  came  upon  me  in  the  height  of  this  despair.     You  found 
me  sitting  alone  in  my  study.     You  remember  the  scene  that 
followed.     I  cannot  recur  to  it.     I  have  felt  a  pleasure  in  re- 
calling the  past  wanderings  of  my  spirit ;  but  those  moments  of 
passion  I  cannot  dwell  upon.     You  know  how  bitterly  I  railed, 
scoffed,  jeered  at  myself,  and  at  every  employment  that  had 
ever  engrossed  me.     I  had  found  in  philosophy  no  faith,  in  the 
world  no  path  of  duty ;  in  my  heart  I  had  found  affections,  and 
these  were  to  be  utterly  crushed.     I  had  somewhere  read,  I 
think  in  one  of  the  novels  of  Goethe,  of  a  melancholy  man,  who, 
finding  his  thoughts  run  much  and  incontrollably  upon  self-de- 
struction, procured  a  dagger,  and  whenever  the  black  hour  of 
his  melancholy  recurred,  the  production  of  the  keen  and  polished 
instrument,  the  handling  of  it,  and  the  consciousness  that  if  he 
pleased   he  might,  used  to  calm  the  fever  of  his  thoughts.     A 
vague  idea  that  either  in  this  way  or  another,  I  might  find  a 
remedy  in  such  an  instrument,  induced  me  to  procure  one,  and 

1  had  deposited  it  in  my  writing-desk.      As  I  chafed  myself 
with  bitter  and  miserable  talk,  I  suddenly  snatched  it  from  its 
hiding-place,  and  dashed  the  blade  against  my  heart.     It  would 
have  been  driven  to  the  hilt,  but  that  you  rushed  forward  and 
struck  it  from  my  hand.     Can  either  of  us  ever  forget  that  mo- 
ment when  we  both  looked  upon  the  dagger  as  it  lay  upon  the 
floor? 

Doggedly,  sullenly,  but  without  a  relapse,  I  have  since 
laboured  at  the  profession  in  which  you  find  me.  You  may  per- 
ceive that  my  labours  have  not  been  without  recompense.  But 


52  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

this  is  not  half  my  reward.  Severe  and  steady  occupation  has 
brought  with  it  an  equanimity  of  mind  which  I  need  not  tell  you 
is  more  precious  than  wealth.  My  friend,  the  wine  stays  with 
you. 

With  a  few  omissions  and  changes,  we  may  undoubt- 
edly in  this  story  substitute  for  the  imaginary  Howard  the 
real  William  Smith.  The  unsuccessful  books  were  buried 
just  as  is  here  related.  It  may  fairly  be  presumed  that 
there  did  succeed  a  period  in  which  meditation  ran  its  own 
unchecked  course,  with  little  or  no  attempt  at  literary  ex- 
pression. The  duration  of  this  period  can  only  be  guessed. 
"  Guidone  "  and  "  Solitude  "  were  published  in  1836  ;  and 
in  1839  we  find  their  author  engaged  with  some  regularity 
in  literary  work  and  living  in  a  circle  of  friends.  To  the 
intervening  time  we  may  refer  the  experience  indicated  in 
"Wild  Oats."  For  the  light,  not  unkindly  satire  with 
which  he  touches  on  his  own  fruitless  ponderings,  an  im- 
partial historian  might  substitute  a  very  different  tone. 
Inconclusive  the  thought  may  well  be  which  essays  these 
loftiest  themes,  of  the  nature  of  the  universe  and  the  des- 
tiny of  mankind,  —  inconclusive,  yet  not  the  less  noble 
and  enriching.  The  sympathy  with  all  the  various  moods 
of  the  intellect,  —  it  is  not  the  quality  which  builds  rail- 
roads, or  wins  proselytes,  or  guides  a  parliament,  but  it  is 
a  generous  and  lofty  disposition. 

Yet  the  satire  has  a  basis  of  truth.  The  attempt  of  a 
human  life  to  support  itself  wholly  in  the  region  of  ab- 
stractions is  as  hopeless  as  for  a  bird  to  try  to  live  al- 
ways on  the  wing.  And  in  this  case,  the  fall  to  earth, 
the  bruising  contact  with  actualities,  came  in  just  the 
way  related.  Many  years  afterward,  to  the  happy  be- 
trothed whose  love  had  made  good  all  previous  loss,  the 
story  was  told,  as  it  is  outlined  in  the  tale,  of  an  attrac- 
tive woman  who  awoke  in  him  a  regard,  which  was 
checked  at  the  outset  by  the  consciousness  of  the  poverty 
to  which  his  unpractical  life  had  consigned  him.  The  pas- 
sion does  not  seem  to  have  been  a  deep  one,  but  its  frus- 


"WILD  OATS— A    NEW  SPECIES."  53 

tration  had  to  him  a  wide  significance ;  it  came  as  a  most 
poignant  reminder  of  the  intense,  unquenchable  yearning 
of  his  human  nature  for  close  human  affection,  which  all 
his  wanderings  in  the  ideal  world  had  left  unsatisfied.  The 
revulsion  and  despair  may  have  taken  no  such  extreme 
form  as  the  attempt  at  suicide  portrays,  yet  may  have 
been  hardly  less  profound.  The  worldly  success  which 
Howard  afterward  wins  is  far  from  a  representation  of 
anything  that  came  to  William  Smith.  But  the  brief 
sentence  which  tells  of  "  equanimity  of  mind  "  acquired 
hints  at  the  truth.  It  is  characteristic  of  the  writer  that 
even  in  the  disguise  of  fiction  he  makes  no  appeal  to  ad- 
miration and  little  even  to  pity.  So  much  of  his  story  as 
was  fair  theme  for  satire,  and  perhaps  for  warning,  he 
would  give  —  and  no  more.  Only  at  the  catastrophe  of 
the  poem's  failure,  and  again  at  the  final  climax,  the  easy 
self-command  and  self -derision  passes  for  a  moment  into 
profound  pathos.  The  power  to  tell  the  story  in  such  a 
vein  of  composure  best  marks  the  self-conquest  that  had 
followed. 

But  in  actual  life  the  conflicting  elements  which  strive 
for  mastery  in  a  soul  rarely  work  out  a  stable  equilib- 
rium in  a  single  encounter.  Not  in  one  battle,  nor  in  one 
campaign,  does  even  the  victorious  man  conquer  a  lasting 
peace.  When  we  read  in  the  Epistle  to  the  Romans  of 
man's  struggle  with  sin,  emerging  in  the  triumphant  cry, 
"  I  thank  God  through  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord  !  "  —  we 
may  be  pretty  sure  that  as  a  personal  experience  some- 
thing like  this  happened  to  Paul,  not  once,  but  many 
times,  after  he  wrote  the  Epistle  as  well  as  before.  There 
may  be  one  critical  fight  which  is  a  turning-point  in  the 
war,  or  there  may  be  several,  but  the  enemy  never  capit- 
ulates. 

To  William  Smith,  meditation  was  always  an  enchant- 
ress, but  her  spell  was  in  part  a  rightful  one.  His  task 
was  to  keep  her  in  place  as  friend,  as  helper,  as  queen 
even,  — but  not  to  let  her  enslave  him. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WORK   AND   ASSOCIATES. 

THE  story  of  the  next  few  years  is  now  to  be  told  by 
the  wife.  For  a  true  view  of  his  character,  her  descrip- 
tion is  the  fit  supplement  to  such  self-disclosure  as  our 
last  chapter  contains.  Self-portraiture  is  always  incom- 
plete. A  man  can  tell  his  own  thoughts  and  feelings  bet- 
ter than  any  one  else,  but  a  further  and  essential  measure 
of  his  character  is  the  impression  he  makes  on  others. 

The  reader  will  have  felt  a  note  of  sadness  predominat- 
ing in  the  self -disclosure.  He  will  recognize  as  the  prom- 
inent feature  in  the  wife's  portrayal  the  beauty  and  charm 
of  character.  The  two  aspects  are  to  be  accepted,  not 
only  as  equally  real,  but  as  helping  to  interpret  each 
other.  He  locked  up  the  sadness  in  his  Own  heart ;  no 
gloom,  no  shadow  was  cast  by  it  upon  the  lives  around 
him  ;  the  only  expression  it  found  was  in  the  hue  it  lent 
to  his  writings,  where  it  was  ennobled  by  association  with 
lofty  thought.  That  gracious  and  winning  aspect  which 
he  wore  not  only  to  his  devoted  wife,  but  in  a  degree  to  all 
who  knew  him,  — including  natures  as  masculine  and  ro- 
bust as  Lewes  and  Sterling,  —  derived  its  sweetness  in 
part  from  the  firm  self-control  with  which  his  melancholy 
was  held  shut  in  his  own  breast.  There  is  no  finer  chem- 
istry than  that  by  which  the  element  of  suffering  is  so 
compounded  with  spiritual  forces  that  it  issues  to  the 
world  as  gentleness  and  strength. 

Of  the  events  which  the  wife's  pen  now  traces,  it  may 
summarily  be  said  that  in  them  we  see  the  man  getting 
gradual  and  sure  hold  of  his  proper  work.  He  was  born 


WORK  AND   ASSOCIATES.  55 

to  think  and  write  ;  and  now,  his  writing  in  the  field  of 
poetry  and  romance  having  met  with  no  extended  success 
or  encouragement,  he  learns  by  degrees  what  wares  he 
can  supply  that  the  market  calls  for.  He  finds  a  channel 
for  his  work  in  the  great  periodicals,  and  less  in  original 
creation  than  in  reviewing  the  work  of  others,  —  a  func- 
tion for  which  he  is  admirably  fitted.  At  the  same  time 
he  has  so  honestly  and  thoroughly  mastered  the  theory  of 
his  nominal  profession,  the  law,  that,  though  accomplish- 
ing nothing  whatever  in  its  actual  practice,  he  can  give 
clear  and  effectual  exposition  to  the  new  applications  of 
its  principles  which  society  needs.  And  meantime  we  see 
him  cultivating  a  cordial  fellowship  with  men  of  generous 
tastes  and  various  pursuits,  while  he  has  no  small  share 
of  domestic  happiness.  The  dreaming  poet  depicted  in 
"  Wild  Oats  "  has  schooled  himself  to  play  well  his  part 
as  a  man  among  men. 

Thus,  then,  runs  the  wife's  story :  — 

(from  the  Memoir.) 

In  1836  and  1837  my  husband  wrote  several  articles 
for  the  "  Quarterly  Review,"  in  reference  to  which  I  find 
some  notes  from  Lockhart,  at  that  time  its  editor.  These, 
and  a  few  other  letters  that  I  shall  presently  refer  to,  had 
been  put  aside  by  William  long  years  ago,  and  first  came 
to  sight  again  after  our  marriage,  when  a  box  of  stored- 
away  books  was  sent  to  him  at  Brighton.  I  remember 
well  that  his  first  impulse  was  to  destroy  these  letters,  but 
I  pleaded  for  their  preservation,  and  they  were  therefore 
consigned  to  another  stationary  and  seldom-opened  box, 
and  thus  escaped  the  doom  of  every  justly  appreciating 
written  tribute  paid  him  in  later  years  —  the  flames.  I 
can  recall  a  note  from  Mr.  J.  S.  Mill,  in  the  autumn  of 
1865,  alluding  in  his  large-hearted  generous  way  to  certain 
lectures  William  had  delivered  at  Kensington  more  than 
twenty  years  before  (lectures  of  which  I  had  heard  him 


56  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

make  a  casual  and  disparaging  mention),  and  that  note 
I  meant  to  abstract  and  preserve ;  but  when  I  rummaged 
my  husband's  little  desk,  which  always  stood  open  to  my 
inspection,  I  could  not  find  it ;  the  note  had  been  burnt ! 
But  to  return  to  the  "  Quarterly."  It  appears  that  Mr. 
Lockhart  did  not  wish  it  to  transpire  that  William  Smith's 
articles  were  those  of  a  young  and  unknown  writer.  In  one 
of  the  notes  I  find,  "  I  have  heard  nothing  but  good  of 
your  paper  on  Landor,  and  I  am  sure  it  has  told  tenfold 
the  more  from  no  one  knowing  as  yet  where  it  came  from. 
Be  it  so  with  Mr.  Bulwer.  You  will  lose  nothing  in  the 
issue."  Never  surely  did  editor  find  a  contributor  more 
conveniently  willing  to  suppress  himself !  Two  of  these 
articles  were  on  legal  subjects,  one  on  Sir  Harris  Nic- 
olas, —  a  kind  friend  of  my  husband's,  at  whose  house  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  meeting  interesting  society,  —  one  was 
on  Modern  Science,  and  the  remaining  two  on  Landor 
and  Bulwer. 

I  wish  I  could  more  distinctly  trace  William  Smith's 
legal  experiences.  I  know  that  he  studied  every  branch 
of  law  that  a  solicitor  can  practice,  before  he  began  to 
read  for  the  bar  with  a  Mr.  Brodie.  I  think  that  it  must 
have  been  in  1838  that  he  was  called  to  the  bar  at  the 
Middle  Temple.  Although  I  have  spoken  of  office  routine 
as  irksome  to  him,  yet  in  the  history  and  philosophy  of 
jurisprudence  he  always  found  vivid  interest,  and  would 
recommend  the  study  as  eminently  favorable  to  the  best 
development  of  the  mind.  Certainly  he  never  regretted 
in  later  years  having  undergone  this  legal  training. 
Perhaps  he  owed  to  it  the  rare  tempering  of  lively  imag- 
ination by  shrewdest  common  sense,  of  quick  feeling  by 
dispassionate  judgment.  But  in  his  early  days  the  bias 
towards  a  life  devoted  to  poetry  and  abstract  thought  was 
too  strong  to  be  resisted  without  suffering,  and  the  com- 
bining professional  study  with  literary  pursuits  must  have 
been  a  strain  upon  a  frame  that  was  never  a  strong  one. 


WORK  AND  ASSOCIATES.  57 

On  no  point  was  his  counsel  to  the  young  more  strenuous 
than  in  regard  to  the  dangers  of  such  divided  allegiance. 
Here  are  some  words  of  his  on  the  subject :  "  It  is  a 
piece  of  advice  we  would  give  to  every  man,  but  especially 
to  the  student,  Harmonize  your  labours.  If  ambition 
prompt  you  to  mingle  two  conflicting  studies  that  will  not 
accord,  that  breed  perpetual  civil  war  in  the  mind,  we 
charge  you  to  fling  away  ambition.  If  the  higher  and 
more  beloved  study  —  be  it  science,  or  poetry,  or  philos- 
ophy —  will  not  yield,  then  choose  at  once  for  it  and  pov- 
erty, if  such  must  be  the  alternative.  Better  anything 
than  a  ruined,  disordered  mind ;  or,  if  you  prefer  the  ex- 
pression, than  a  confirmed  cerebral  disease."  We  shall 
find  the  writer  of  this  passage  making  such  decided 
choice  by  and  by.  But  the  time  had  not  yet  come. 

In  1839  William  Smith  published  "A  Discourse  on 
Ethics  of  the  School  of  Paley."  ...  It  was  also  in  1839 
that  my  husband,  having  been  introduced  by  Mr.  Warren 
to  the  Messrs.  Blackwood,  wrote  his  first  article,  entitled 
"  A  Prosing  on  Poetry,"  for  their  magazine.  Thus  began 
a  much  valued  connection,  that  endured  to  the  end  of  his 
life,  and  an  uninterrupted  friendship.  His  contributions 
were  very  varied  —  tales,  adaptations  from  foreign  litera- 
ture, at  first  intermingled  with  reviews.  Later  the  articles 
became  more  exclusively  critical  and  devoted  to  philosoph- 
ical subjects.  I  have  the  whole  series,  bound  up  in  eight 
volumes,  containing  a  hundred  and  twenty  papers,  not  one 
of  them  hastily  or  carelessly  written,  not  one  that  does  not 
contain  unbiassed  criticism  and  earnest  thought.  I  often 
look  at  the  volumes  regretfully;  so  much  wisdom  and 
charm  of  style  seem  buried  there  —  forgotten  !  But  I  can- 
not doubt  that  these  contributions  did  good  work  in  their 
day,  enlarged  and  enriched  many  a  kindred  mind,  woke 
inquiry  and  diffused  toleration.  Some  years  ago  Mr. 
Blackwood  proposed  to  reprint  a  selection  from  them,  but 
my  husband  declined;  and  though  he  still  would  from 


58  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

habit  tear  out  and  lay  aside  his  articles,  I  found  written 
on  a  paper  that  contained  all  these  of  later  date, "  To  be 
burnt  —  when  "  —  In  that  one  instance  I  could  not 
obey  him. 

In  1840  William  Smith  published  a  pamphlet  on  "  Law 
Reform,"  written  in  his  own  easy,  lucid  style,  "  for  the 
general  reader,"  and  calling  not  only  for  certain  changes 
that  have  since  taken  place,  but  for  several  now  under 
consideration. 

I  think  that  about  this  time  my  husband's  life  must 
have  been  peculiarly  pleasant.  He  was  still  living  with 
the  mother  who  so  loved  him,  and  whom  he  so  loved ; 
there  were  cheerful  homes  of  married  brothers  and  sisters, 
where  he  was  always  eagerly  welcomed,  —  depended  upon 
on  social  occasions  to  make  the  "  party  go  off  well "  by 
his  bright  talk  and  smile,  —  and  he  had  besides  his  own 
circle  of  personal  friends,  amongst  whom  I  may  name 
George  Henry  Lewes,  Samuel  Warren,  the  author  of 
"  The  Correlation  of  Physical  Forces  "  (now  Mr.  Justice 
Grove),  Frederick  Denison  Maurice,  and  John  Sterling. 
I  have  before  alluded  to  his  habit  of  underestimating  — 
perhaps  I  should  rather  say  his  inability  to  realize  —  the 
amount  of  the  regard  he  inspired.  Hence,  while  delight- 
ing to  enlarge  upon  the  special  merits  of  more  successful 
men,  he  would  touch  very  lightly  upon  his  own  inter- 
course with  them.  But  from  other  sources  I  know  some- 
thing of  the  charm  they  found  in  his  society,  and  the  re- 
gret with  which  they  lost  sight  of  him  ;  and  I  shall  here 
copy  a  letter  of  Sterling's,  —  the  man  of  all  others,  I  have 
heard  my  husband  say,  whom  he  could  have  best  loved,  — 
both  because  it  is  interesting  in  itself,  and  proves  the 
value  Sterling  set  upon  his  friend :  — 

CLIFTON,  January  6,  1840. 

MY  DEAR  SMITH,  —  I  have  very  little  time  for  writing 
any  but  the  most  indispensable  letters  before  I  leave  England. 
Yours,  however,  is  too  kind,  and  gave  me  too  much  unexpected 


WORK  AND  ASSOCIATES.  ,          59 

pleasure,  to  be  left  unacknowledged.  I  attach  little  value  to  the 
contents  of  my  volume  as  poems  ;  but  had  my  judgment  of  them 
been  different,  no  corroboration  of  it  from  others  could  give  me 
the  kind  of  gratification  which  I  derive  from  finding  that  you 
sometimes  think  of  me,  and  return  so  cordially  the  regard  which 
I  must  always  feel  for  you.  The  future  is  with  me  still  more 
uncertain  than  with  most  people,  but  if  any  among  the  strange 
chances  of  life  should  bring  us  within  reach  of  each  other,  I 
should  consider  it  a  more  unalloyed  advantage  and  pleasure  than 
most  of  those  which  life  affords.  As  to  the  professorship,  my 
suggestion  in  answer  to  Mill's  inquiry  whether  I  knew  of  a  fit- 
ting person  would  have  been  the  same  had  I  known  of  you  only 
what  I  have  read  in  your  writings.  There  was  at  that  time 
some  reason  to  imagine  the  stars  might  be  turned  from  their 
courses  for  once,  and  the  Glasgow  professors  from  jobbing.  It 
would  have  been,  of  course,  very  pleasant  to  see  you  in  your 
right  place,  and  I  still  trust  that  some  opportunity  may  arise  of 
having  you  established  as  a  public  teacher. 

I  should  be  very  glad  to  know  something  of  what  you  are 
about,  and  also  to  have  some  accounts  of  Theyre  and  of  Wei- 
gall,  to  both  of  whom  pray  remember  me  warmly.  I  leave 
this  on  Friday  for  Falmouth,  whence  I  am  to  embark  for  Ma- 
deira. I  have  had  a  long  and  severe  illness,  and  at  one  time 
seemed  hardly  likely  to  recover.  It  is  still  very  doubtful 
whether  I  can  face  another  English  winter,  and  I  may  very  pos- 
sibly be  afloat  again  on  this  yeasty  world,  with  a  wife  and 
four  children  to  lighten  my  movements.  At  all  events  I  shall 
be  always  Affectionately  yours, 

JOHN  STERLING. 

In  connection  with  this  faint  hope  of  a  Glasgow  chair, 
to  which  the  letter  alludes,  I  find  two  notes  of  Mr.  J.  S. 
Mill's,  full  of  friendly  cooperation  and  interest ;  but 
highly  as  my  husband  esteemed  the  post  of  Professor  of 
Moral  Philosophy  in  a  Scotch  University,  I  am  sure  that 
the  whole  scheme  arose  entirely  from  the  zeal  of  a  few 
friends,  and  that  its  impracticability  gave  him  no  sense  of 
disappointment.  I  never  heard  him  dwell  upon  it. 


60          x  WILLIAM   SMITH. 

Mr.  Lewes  has  sent  me  his  reminiscences  of  his  friend, 
which  I  gratefully  transcribe  here,  though  they  refer  to  a 
somewhat  later  period. 

It  was,  I  think,  early  in  the  year  1842,  that  I  first  made  the 
acquaintance  of  William  Smith,  an  acquaintance  that  very  rap- 
idly grew  into  a  friendship  over  which  no  cloud  ever  crossed. 
Our  ways  of  life  separated  us,  and  we  saw  but  little  of  each 
other  during  the  last  twenty  years,  but  the  separation  was  of 
bodies  only,  not  of  minds.  He  was  at  first  what  I  knew  him  at 
last,  one  of  the  few  men  deservedly  called  distinguished,  a  gen- 
uine and  individual  nature  not  in  any  degree  factitious  or  com- 
monplace. He  was  himself,  and  all  his  sentiments  and  opinions 
were  his  own,  not  echoes  or  compromises.  In  spite  of  his  shy- 
ness there  was  an  affectionate  expansiveness  in  his  manner  which 
irresistibly  attracted  me,  and  although  I  always  spoke  of  him  as 
**  Little  Smith,"  the  epithet,  absurd  enough  coming  from  one  no 
bigger  than  himself,  only  expressed  the  sort  of  tender  feeling 
one  has  for  a  woman.  So  far  from  its  implying  any  assumption 
of  superiority,  I  regarded  him  not  only  as  my  elder,  but  in  many 
respects  my  superior;  and  in  the  height  of  our  discussions, 
which  were  incessant,  my  antagonism  was  always  tempered  by 
that  veneration  which  one  irresistibly  feels  in  presence  of  a  gen- 
uine nature.  It  was  this  genuineness  and  his  keen,  flexible  sym- 
pathy which  formed  the  great  charm  of  his  society.  One  felt 
thoroughly  at  home  with  him  at  once. 

At  that  time  he  had  lodgings  in  Pembroke  Square,  Kensing- 
ton. [This  was  after  his  mother's  death.]  I  lived  in  the  same 
square,  so  that  we  saw  each  other  frequently ;  though  it  was  I 
who  mostly  had  to  pay  the  visit,  his  reserve  making  him  less 
willing  to  come  in  to  me.  He  led  a  lonely,  uncomfortable  life, 
as  such  a  man  in  lodgings  inevitably  must,  unless  he  goes  into 
society.  I  used  to  preach  to  him  against  his  waste  of  time  in 
desultory  study,  and  his  injudicious  arrangements  of  the  hours 
of  work.  In  vain.  Like  most  literary  men,  he  had  a  prejudice 
in  favour  of  night  work,  and  would  fritter  away  the  precious 
hours  of  morning,  taking  little  exercise,  and  less  relaxation.  I 
used  to  tell  him  that  marriage  was  the  only  safety  for  him, 
uml  so  it  proved.  So  affectionate  a  nature  could  not  be  content 
vith  studv  and  work  ;  the  heart  claimed  its  own. 


WORK  AND   ASSOCIATES.  61 

There  was  another  point  on  which  I  used  to  preach  with 
equal  unsuccess  —  the  waste  of  his  fine  mind  in  metaphysical 
research.  This  was  a  standing  subject  of  controversy.  His  pro- 
found seriousness  and  restless  desire  to  get  to  the  bottom  of 
every  subject  made  him  cling  pertinaciously  to  even  the  faintest 
hope  of  a  possible  answer  to  those  questions  which  for  centuries 
have  vexed  speculative  minds,  and  no  failure  could  discourage 
him. 

We  were  always  battling,  yet  never  once  did  we  get  even  near 
a  quarrel.  On  many  points  wide  as  the  poles  asunder,  we  man- 
aged to  mangle  each  other's  arguments  without  insult,  and 
whenever  opposition  seemed  verging  towards  the  excitation  of 
temper,  some  playful  remark  or  wild  paradox  of  retort  was  ready 
to  clear  the  air  with  laughter.  In  this  way  we  "  travelled  over 
each  other's  minds,"  and  travelled  over  the  universe.  On  mat- 
ters of  poetry  and  criticism  we  were  more  at  one;  but  even 
there,  precisely  because  Smith  had  his  own  views,  his  own  mode 
of  looking  at  things,  there  was  an  endless  charm  in  listening  to 
him  and  differing  from  him.  Till  deep  into  the  night  we  would 
sit  "  talking  of  lovely  things  that  conquer  death  ;  "  and  I  seem 
now  to  see  the  sweet  smile  and  lustrous  eye  fixed  on  me,  and 
hear  his  pleasant  voice  playfully  uttering  some  fine  truth.  One 
of  the  noticeable  points  in  him  was  the  lambent  playfulness, 
combined  with  great  seriousness,  the  subtle  humour  and  the 
subtle  thought,  which  gave  a  new  aspect  to  old  opinions,  so  that 
we  may  say  of  him  what  Goethe  says  of  Schiller,  that  — 

"  Hinter  ihm,  im  wesenlosen  Scheme, 
Lag,  was  uns  Alle  baudigt  —  das  Gemeine." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

COUNTER-CURRENTS. 

WE  have  followed  far  on  the  track  of  the  man's  life ; 
we  have  seen  him  with  the  eyes  of  his  associates,  of  him- 
self, and  of  the  wife  of  later  years;  and  yet  we  have 
not  faced,  except  in  glimpses,  the  field  of  his  deepest  en- 
ergies, or  the  truest  manifestation  of  his  character.  For 
that,  we  must  consider  the  religious  problem  of  the  age, 
as  he  met  it  and  as  his  contemporaries  met  it. 

The  effort  of  the  religious  mind  has  always  been  to  dis- 
cern a  relation  between  the  human  soul  and  the  power 
which  governs  the  universe  ;  a  relation  which  shall  guide 
man's  action,  shall  support  him  under  all  calamities  and 
fears,  and  shall  justify  a  perfect  trust  and  hope.  Chris- 
tianity in  its  own  way  affirmed  such  a  relation.  The 
stumbling-block  which  in  our  age  the  religious  mind  has 
found  in  Christianity  was,  in  the  first  instance,  that  the 
divine  government  of  human  destiny  which  it  presented 
appeared  in  one  respect  unjust  and  inhuman.  William 
Smith  has  set  forth  his  own  early  experience,  under  the 
guise  of  Cyril's  revolt  against  the  doctrine  of  eternal  pun- 
ishment. In  a  word  :  "  A  government  of  mankind  unjust 
and  inhuman  —  therefore  uuworshipful  —  therefore  in- 
credible ! " 

The  dogma  of  eternal  perdition  had  not  been  inconsist- 
ent with  the  general  sentiment  and  practice  of  Europe  in 
earlier  times.  The  right  of  every  human  being  to  life, 
liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness  may  in  our  day  be 
an  axiom ;  to  the  mediaeval  world  it  would  have  been  a 
paradox.  Through  the  laws  and  manners  of  those  centu- 


COUNTER- CURRENTS.  63 

ries  there  runs  a  deep  vein  of  savagery.  Into  the  lineage 
of  Christendom,  the  Jew  brought  a  full  share  of  "  Asia's 
rancor  ;  "  the  Roman  after  an  insurrection  lined  his  high- 
ways with  crucified  slaves;  the  Northern  people  were  a 
fierce,  fighting  stock.  The  mild  genius  of  early  Chris- 
tianity, fusing  with  such  elements,  in  a  degree  softened 
them,  and  in  a  degree  received  their  impress.  The  practi- 
cal attitude  of  society  toward  the  heretic,  the  criminal, 
and  the  infidel  was  such  as  accorded  not  ill  with  the  be- 
lief that  Divine  Justice  assigned  a  part  of  its  erring 
creatures  to  hopeless  ruin.  But,  in  the  new  growth  of 
society,  man  had  now  come  to  feel  more  tenderly  to  his 
fellows,  and  also  to  think  more  highly  of  himself  as  man. 
Christianity  itself,  in  its  best  phases,  had  toiled  with  a 
new  ardor  of  compassion  for  the  unfortunate  classes. 
While  the  philosophers  of  the  eighteenth  century  taught 
man  to  think  of  himself  as  something  better  than  a  guilty 
worm,  while  Rousseau  gave  expression  to  a  great  impulse 
of  universal  brotherhood,  it  was  also  largely  due  to 
churchmen  like  the  Wesleys  and  John  Howard,  and  to 
the  reformers  of  English  jurisprudence,  that  Englishmen 
were  coming  to  feel  that  the  wicked  and  the  degraded 
ought  to  be  saved  rather  than  to  be  cursed  by  their  fel- 
low-men. By  their  fellow-men  —  then  why  not  by  their 
Maker  ?  That  was  the  startling  question  with  which  prac- 
tical Christianity  turned  back  on  theoretical  Christianity. 
On  just  this  ground  the  father  of  John  Stuart  Mill  broke 
away  from  Christianity  altogether  ;  to  him  and  to  his 
greater  son,  "  the  omnipotent  author  of  hell "  was  incred- 
ible, impossible.  So  for  many  others  the  whole  fabric  of 
Christianity  went  down  because  of  this  terrible  dogma. 

"  But  why  reject  the  whole  ?  Why  give  up  a  historical 
revelation  of  God  to  man,  the  divine  Christ,  the  faith 
and  aspiration  ripened  by  eighteen  hundred  years,  be- 
cause some  elements  of  superstition  and  horror  have  min- 
gled with  it,  and  ought  now  to  be  abandoned  ?  "  So  felt 


6  WILL/AM   SMITH. 

and  reasoned  those  men,  at  once  reverent  and  progressive, 
who  remained  within  the  Christian  church,  and,  against 
the  inertia  or  hostility  of  its  blindly  conservative  elements, 
introduced  gradually  a  more  humane  and  rational  teach- 
ing. And  far  more  extensive  than  any  explicit  renuncia- 
tion of  the  dogma  of  hopeless  perdition  has  been  its  fad- 
ing into  dimness  and  unreality  in  most  of  those  who  still 
think  they  believe  it. 

But  for  another  class  of  minds,  the  first  difficulty,  a 
moral  difficulty,  led  the  way  to  another,  an  intellectual 
difficulty.  Impelled  to  reject  one  article  of  the  church's 
creed,  they  were  forced  upon  the  inquiry,  On  what  au- 
thority does  this  entire  creed  rest  ?  Modify  this  body  of 
doctrine  if  you  will ;  make  its  assertions  conform  to  our 
highest  ideals  and  aspirations  ;  enthrone  pure  justice  and 
benevolence  over  the  universe  ;  but,  after  all,  be  the  creed 
made  ever  so  beautiful  and  attractive,  how  do  we  know 
that  it  is  true?  What  foundation  of  known  fact  sup- 
ports it  ? 

The  old  answer  had  been,  "  The  church  declares  it." 
The  mystic,  infallible  authority  of  the  church  has  been 
asserted  with  so  potent  an  appeal  to  the  imagination  and 
to  religious  sentiment,  that  even  in  our  own  day  a  few  of 
the  finest  minds  and  an  army  of  the  less  intelligent  re- 
spond to  it.  But  the  sturdier  intellect  of  Europe  has 
long  since  concluded  that  Leo  Tenth  had  no  access  to  the 
divine  counsels  beyond  what  Luther  had ;  that  neither 
baptismal  water  nor  consecrating  oil  nor  papal  tiara  gives 
any  initiation  into  mysteries  hid  from  common  eyes. 
But  though  there  be  no  infallibility  of  popes  or  councils, 
yet  in  the  Bible  Protestants  still  hold  we  have  an  infalli- 
ble book,  or,  at  the  least,  a  trustworthy  historical  account 
of  a  direct  revelation  made  by  God  to  man,  consummated 
in  the  divine  life  and  teaching  of  Christ.  And  on  this 
Protestantism  planted  itself. 

Now,  while  these  ecclesiastical  controversies  have  been 


COUNTER-CURRENTS.  65 

in  progress,  for  some  three  centuries  past  another  kind  of 
inquiry  has  been  going  on.  Man  has  been  engaged,  with 
immense  interest  and  growing  success,  in  finding  out  by 
actual,  close  scrutiny,  what  kind  of  a  world  he  is  living  in, 
what  the  generations  before  him  were,  what  his  body  is, 
and  in  fine,  what  he  is  himself.  For  a  long  while  the 
church  had  undertaken  to  tell  him  all  it  was  necessary  to 
know  about  these  things.  "The  church,"  —  well,  after 
all  it  appeared  that  the  church  was  simply  a  company  of 
his  fellow-men.  Certainly  they  could  not  tell  him  all  he 
wanted  to  know;  assuredly  this  company  of  his  fellows 
should  no  longer  forbid  him  to  use  his  eyes  and  his 
mind  for  such  knowledge  as  lay  in  them  to  acquire !  The 
Catholic  Church  was  very  confident  that  it  knew  all  about 
God  and  the  unseen  and  future  worlds ;  the  church's  re- 
volted daughters,  too,  the  Protestant  sects,  were  well  as- 
sured on  these  themes.  So  be  it,  then ;  let  churchmen  of 
all  shades  hold  their  knowledge  or  belief  about  God  and 
heaven  and  hell ;  very  likely  they  may  be  right.  But  here 
meanwhile  is  this  seen  and  present  world,  with  its  rocks 
and  plants  and  animals  and  human  creatures,  and  its 
stars  above  ;  let  us  find  out  all  we  can  about  these  !  Un- 
der this  impulse  has  grown  all  that  wonderful  knowledge 
of  which  we  speak  as  science. 

Now,  after  a  while,  this  accumulation  of  knowledge, 
and  this  way  of  regarding  man  and  the  world,  must  needs 
encounter  the  assertions  which  the  church  has  been  mak- 
ing as  to  how  the  universe  is  governed,  where  man  came 
from,  where  he  is  going  to,  and  how  he  ought  to  conduct 
himself.  And  true  science,  in  its  exact  and  scrupulous 
fashion,  will  make  here  no  sweeping  affirmation  or  denial 
as  to  the  vast  and  various  body  of  tenets  which  are  laid 
down  by  individual  churches,  or  by  all  churches  in  com- 
mon. To  some  of  the  most  familiar  ideas  of  Christian 
theology,  men  of  the  scientific  habit  will  generally  be 
opposed  ;  as  to  other  ideas,  they  may  be  favorable,  or 


66  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

divided  among  themselves ;  and  as  to  yet  others,  it  may 
be  generally  agreed  that  science  proper  has  nothing  to  say 
pro  or  con  ;  in  other  words,  that  they  are  not  matters  on 
which  we  can  have  clear  and  definite  knowledge,  though 
they  may  perhaps  have  a  place  and  a  weight  in  human 
life. 

The  broadest  result  of  scientific  inquiry  has  been  the 
discovery,  in  every  quarter  to  which  its  researches  could 
penetrate,  of  a  regular  order  in  the  succession  of  events. 
It  has  traced  a  definite  and  fixed  relation  of  cause  and  ef- 
fect running  through  all  the  phenomena  of  nature,  even  in 
those  which  in  earlier  ages  could  be  referred  only  to  the 
inscrutable  will  and  pleasure  of  God.  In  the  movements 
of  the  whirlwind  and  of  the  planets,  in  eclipses  and  me- 
teors, in  pestilence  and  famine,  science  has  traced  the  ex- 
istence of  sure,  unvarying  causes.  In  a  word,  the  steady 
tendency  of  science  has  been  to  suggest  a  perfect  unity, 
an  unvarying  order,  through  all  the  known  creation. 

Now  this  idea  of  universal  order  collides  at  several 
points  with  the  traditional  conceptions  of  Christian  theol- 
ogy. It  is  unfavorable  to  the  belief  in  a  rebellious  and 
hostile  power  forever  warring  against  the  Supreme  ruler, 
and  an  early  infraction  of  man's  normal  relations,  fol- 
lowed by  a  costly  and  imperfect  retrieval.  It  is  unfavor- 
able to  the  belief  in  a  habitual  interruption  of  the  natu- 
ral order  of  events  by  special  divine  interventions.  And 
meantime  the  study  of  history  has  discovered  a  natural 
genesis  of  "  miracles,"  not  as  wilful  impostures,  but  as 
products  of  a  fervid  and  untrained  imagination.  And  at 
last  the  inevitable  issue  is  raised,  Were  the  phenomena 
recorded  of  the  birth  of  Christianity  the  genuine  creden- 
tials of  an  authoritative  revelation  from  Heaven  to  man  ? 
Or  were  those  miracles  simply  an  imaginative  dress,  in- 
vesting the  central  fact  of  a  very  noble  but  only  human 
personality  ? 

It  is   through  the  acceptance  of  the  latter  conclusion 


COUN  TEH-CURRENTS.  o'7 

that  the  authority  of  Christianity  has  been  undermined, 
for  most  of  those  who  in  our  day  disown  its  claim.  The 
moral  revolt  against  some  articles  of  the  Christian  creed 
might  have  found  satisfaction,  and  has  for  many  found 
ample  satisfaction,  in  the  modification  of  that  creed.  But 
others,  like  William  Smith,  who  began  from  the  moral 
difficulty,  have  been  drawn  by  that  stream  to  the  river  of 
scientific  thought,  and  by  this  influence  carried  completely 
away  from  belief  in  an  authoritative  revelation. 

But  for  such  minds  there  still  remain  the  great  topics 
of  natural  religion,  —  man's  moral  nature,  the  existence 
and  nature  of  Godrand  whatever  grounds  of  achievement 
and  aspiration  and  hope  may  exist  for  the  human  spirit. 
Say  that  there  be  no  infallible  oracle  in  these  provinces  of 
thought,  —  none  the  less  is  it  a  possibility,  a  necessity,  of 
the  human  mind  to  explore  them.  It  is  only  the  long 
habit  of  depending  upon  authoritative  teaching  that  makes 
all  religious  knowledge  and  belief  seem  dependent  on  such 
a  teacher.  The  whole  progress  of  modern  knowledge  has 
been  made  under  this  condition,  that  man  must  not  blindly 
follow  authority,  but  must  find  out  for  himself.  Just  so 
is  it  with  religious  truth.  The  renunciation  of  authorita- 
tive Christianity  brings  a  mind  like  Wijliam  Smith's  only 
to  the  threshold  of  its  task. 

The  men  who  have  been  named  as  his  early  associates 
or  acquaintances  —  Maurice,  Sterling,  Grove,  Lewes,  and 
Mill  —  fairly  represent  or  suggest  the  principal  tenden- 
cies of  thought  in  the  mind  of  the  English-speaking  people 
in  the  middle  period  of  this  century.  Maurice  became  a 
leader  of  that  Broad  Church  movement  to  which  Cole- 
ridge and  Dr.  Arnold  had  given  the  impulse.  Theyre 
Smith,  too,  was  one  of  the  progressive  churchmen.  (The 
High  Church  school  has  no  representative  in  the  group ; 
neither  has  the  Evangelical.)  Sterling  was  the  pupil  of 
Coleridge,  then  of  Carlyle,  —  two  representatives  of  the 
intuitional  philosophy.  Grove,  author  of  "  The  Correla- 


68  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

tion  of  Forces,"  well  typifies  the  achievements  of  pure 
science.  Lewes  was  a  leader  in  that  company  of  Positiv- 
ists  who  addressed  themselves  to  working  out  the  con- 
crete problems  of  society,  abandoning  all  quest  toward 
the  divine  as  hopeless.  Mill  wrought  vigorously  in  the 
philosophy  which  limits  knowledge  to  the  sphere  of  the 
visible  and  tangible,  and  in  broad  problems  of  society  and 
politics.1 

These  various  currents  have  agitated  this  century,  as 
torrents  swollen  in  spring-time  stir  into  turmoil  some 
mountain  lake.  Only  when  the  tumult  has  abated  does  it 
appear  that  the  tranquillized  surface  overlies  a  deeper 
volume.  There  have  been  some  men  whose  minds  were 
like  the  very  meeting-points  of  the  currents,  and  among 
such  men  were  Arthur  Hugh  Clough  and  William  Smith. 

1  See  Appendix. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"GIVEN   SELF,   TO   FIND   GOD." 

THE  two  men  just  named  had  this  as  their  common 
peculiarity,  —  that,  deeply  religious  by  nature,  they  found 
themselves  in  the  light  of  modern  knowledge  unable  to 
accept  Christianity  as  a  supernatural  revelation,  and  were 
absorbed  in  the  effort  to  discern,  apart  from  such  revela- 
tion, an  object  for  man's  supreme  allegiance,  love,  and 
trust. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  men  who  gave  themselves  unre- 
servedly to  this  quest  should  have  been  drawn  far  apart 
from  the  ordinary  activities  and  associations  of  men.  To 
those,  on  the  one  side  of  them,  who  were  devoted  to  the 
pursuits  of  science  or  the  positive  philosophy,  they  seemed 
to  be  hopelessly  wasting  their  time  and  strength.  By  the 
churchmen,  on  the  other  hand,  they  were  likely  to  be  re- 
garded with  a  mixture  of  pity  and  aversion.  That  active 
religious  life  to  which  the  churchman  of  the  best  type  de- 
votes himself  has  for  its  object  the  promotion  of  the  high- 
est virtue  and  the  purest  happiness.  Now  that  field  of  in- 
quiry whose  doors  were  inexorably  thrown  open  before 
such  minds  as  Clough  and  William  Smith,  offers  at  the 
outset  a  vast  tract  of  doubt,  —  vast,  perhaps  interminable ! 
And  doubt,  so  long  as  it  possesses  the  mind,  is  the  certain 
foe  of  happiness,  and  seems  a  menace  to  the  fairest  forms 
of  virtue. 

But  what  is  the  spirit  of  the  unsparing  truth-seeker  ? 
It  is  a  spirit  that  has  played  no  small  part  in  our  day :  the 
interest  in  William  Smith's  personality  is  that  he,  like 
Clough,  was  a  singularly  pure  type  of  it.  Delicate  as  he 


70  WILLIAM   SMITH. 

appeared,  —  sensitive,  fastidious,  over-fine  for  practical 
uses, — his  spirit  was  under  one  consistent,  unswerving, 
all-powerful  sway,  the  search  for  truth.  Choice  it  could 
hardly  be  called,  and  purpose  is  too  weak  a  word  for 
the  passion  of  his  life.  The  impartiality  of  his  intellect 
equalled  his  singleness  of  aim.  All  truth  was  sacred  to 
him  ;  he  must  needs  listen  reverently  to  the  churchman, 
to  the  man  of  science,  to  the  metaphysician,  to  the  mystic. 
To  blend  their  various  glimpses  of  reality  into  one  clear, 
full  disclosure,  was  the  intense  and  constant  effort  of  his 
nature.  Yet,  so  long  as  the  facts  did  not  agree  in  their 
testimony,  he  would  not  and  could  not  betake  himself  to 
any  harmony  gained  by  some  suppression,  some  refusal  to 
look. 

Such  a  quest  carried  with  it  conditions  of  severe  priva- 
tion. Heaviest  privation  of  all  was  the  withholding  from 
the  soul  of  that  clear  vision  of  a  divine  and  perfect  beauty 
which  it  thirsted  to  behold  and  to  adore.  There  was  the 
deprivation,  too,  of  that  organized  social  assistance  in  the 
highest  life,  which  is  a  deep  necessity  of  the  religious  man, 
and  for  which  the  church  had  made  abundant  provision, — 
but  on  the  basis  of  beliefs  which  to  minds  like  these  were 
no  longer  tenable.  And  there  was  laid  upon  them  an  in- 
ability to  declare  a  positive  and  confident  gospel  to  man- 
kind, —  a  disqualification  for  that  preaching  of  good  tid- 
ings which  is  one  of  the  highest  joys  and  firmest  sup- 
ports of  the  human  spirit.  The  religious  inquirer,  until 
his  quest  was  satisfied,  —  and  a  lifetime  might  prove  too 
short  to  satisfy  it,  —  had  no  clear  message  to  give  of  in- 
spiration, comfort,  or  triumph :  he  could  only  commune 
with  his  own  heart  and  be  still. 

Yet  the  men  who  stood  thus  alone,  and  seemingly  aside 
from  the  splendid  activities  of  the  age,  were  taking  a  fore- 
most part  in  the  age's  most  vital  work.  They  were  learn- 
ing the  conditions  under  which  was  to  be  possible  hence- 
forth the  noblest  life  of  man,  —  that  life  which  is  faithful 


"GIVEN  SELF,    TO  FIND  GOD.''1  71 

alike  to  the  love  of  truth,  the  love  of  men,  and  the  love  of 
God. 

What  is  in  a  word  the  essential  difficulty  which  con- 
fronts the  man  who  is  at  once  devout  in  spirit  and  candid 
in  thought  when  he  essays  to  worship  ?  It  is  the  presence 
of  evil.  The  object  of  religious  worship  must  be  the 
supreme  power  of  the  universe.  That  power  is  disclosed 
to  us  by  the  facts  of  existence  which  we  experience  and 
observe.  At  the  threshold  of  experience  and  observation, 
and  on  to  their  farthest  earthly  limit,  we  encounter  some 
things  which  we  can  only  call  evil.  The  heart  feels  within 
itself,  mixed  with  nobler  qualities,  elements  of  weakness, 
of  sin,  and  of  seeming  chaos.  The  world  of  humanity, 
broadly  surveyed,  presents  an  appalling  degree  of  misery 
and  wrong,  evils  which  man's  noblest  impulses  bid  him  to 
seek  to  remove.  How,  in  the  presence  of  these  facts  of 
existence,  is  it  possible  to  view  the  supreme  author  of  ex- 
istence with  reverence  or  with  trust  ?  That  is  the  old,  old 
difficulty  of  the  religious  intellect.  One  answer  after  an- 
other has  been  offered,  has  satisfied  for  a  while,  and  has 
at  last  failed  to  satisfy.  Yet  surviving  all  failures  has 
been  the  impulse  to  revere,  to  trust,  and  to  love  the  author 
of  all.  If  now  Christianity,  too,  shall  fail  as  an  answer  to 
the  problem,  —  if  its  philosophy  of  a  fall  and  a  redemp- 
tion seem  unworthy,  if  its  credentials  of  a  supernatural 
message  appear  untrustworthy,  if  its  central  figure  prove 
but  a  human  personality  deified  by  loving  imagination,  — 
must,  then,  this  old  impulse  to  worship  God  be  given  up 
at  last  as  outgrown  childishness  ?  Yes,  said  the  church- 
man, that  is  the  inevitable  result ;  therefore  hold  fast  to 
the  supernatural  revelation  and  the  divine  Christ,  no 
matter  what  so-called  science,  history,  and  reason  may  al- 
lege. Yes,  said  the  Positivist,  with  Christianity  perishes 
all  worship  of  divinity :  therefore  follow  science,  history, 
reason,  and  learn  to  live  without  a  God  !  Said  a  few  oth- 
ers, though  through  long  years  only  in  the  silence  of  their 


72  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

own  hearts :  "  Let  us  learn  all  that  science,  history,  and 
reason  can  teach ;  let  us  give  up,  since  so  we  must,  the 
belief  in  any  supernatural  message  ;  yet  let  us  think,  live, 
wait,  in  the  hope  that  the  power  sustaining  the  universe 
will  prove  the  worthy  object  of  the  highest  allegiance,  rev- 
erence, and  rapture  that  man  can  give." 

These  two  men,  Clough  and  William  Smith,  were  among 
the  purest  exemplars  of  this  spirit.  As  to  their  intellec- 
tual traits,  while  both  were  richly  endowed  with  both  the 
logical  and  the  imaginative  faculties,  yet  of  the  two 
Clough  was  rather  the  poet  and  Smith  the  philosopher. 
Among  Clough's  verses,  deeply  shadowed  as  a  whole  by 
doubt  and  struggle,  are  a  few  which  shine  out  like  the 
radiant  gleams  of  sunshine  in  a  cloudy  November  day. 
Some  of  them  are  among  the  most  inspiring  expressions 
we  possess  of  a  faith  which  rises  serene  and  victorious  in 
the  mind  that  cannot  yet  formulate  and  explain  its  con- 
victions. And  even  these  poems  seem  not  to  give  ade- 
quate expression  to  the  deeper  peace  which  came  with 
Clough's  later  years,  and  came,  alas  for  us !  along  with  so 
much  of  outward  occupation  as  silenced  the  poetic  voice. 
But  of  Clough  this  seems  always  the  characteristic,  that, 
while  fully  facing  all  the  considerations  which  can  be 
brought  before  the  deliberative  intellect,  and  accepting 
whatever  can  be  fairly  established  before  that  tribunal, 
he  yet  at  last  follows  hope  and  trust  under  some  impulse 
which  is  beyond  analysis.  He  is  content  without  definite 
proof,  and  with  only  the  most  general  conclusion.  It  is 
the  intellectual  man  to  whom  his  poems  appeal,  but  the 
deepest  appeal  is  not  to  his  logic  or  analysis  but  to  the 
man.  "  Hope  evermore  and  believe  !  "  Hope  what,  be- 
lieve why?  He  scarcely  tells  us,  but  the  grand  verse 
moves  our  hearts  irresistibly ;  we  obey  it  as  we  obey 
Life  itself,  which  also  does  not  give  its  reasons. 

We  shall  find,  too,  that  some  of  William  Smith's 
weightiest  words  address  something  in  us  which  lies  deeper 


"GIVEN  SELF,    TO  FIND   GOD."  73 

than  analysis.  But  the  general  characteristic  of  his  mind 
was  to  seek  a  perfect  lucidity.  He  desired  not  only  to 
trust,  but  to  understand.  He  had  that  longing  for  re- 
ality which  belongs  to  every  truth-seeker,  and  he  also 
wanted  clear  and  definite  reality.  He  was  inclined  to  dis- 
trust any  idea  or  any  assertion  which  could  not  give  an 
intelligible  account  of  itself  in  the  language  of  plain  rea- 
son. Probably,  the  natural  bent  of  his  mind  had  been 
strengthened  by  his  early  education  in  Scotch  metaphys- 
ics, and  by  his  long  training  in  the  science  of  law,  which 
tolerates  nothing  vague  or  indefinite.  One  might  say  that 
his  mind  was  English  in  its  instinct  for  reality  and  con- 
creteness ;  Scotch  in  its  tendency  to  metaphysics,  which 
essays  definite  analysis  of  the  most  abstract  subjects ;  and 
French  in  its  clearness  and  grace ;  while  it  held  in  sus- 
picion that  mysticism  which  belongs  to  the  Teutonic 
genius,  and  of  which  it  had  by  inheritance  its  full  share. 
There  were  indeed  in  him  strong  elements  of  imagina- 
tion, poetry,  and  feeling ;  and  apparently  from  the  very 
liveliness  of  his  emotional  nature  he  drew  a  Varning 
against  letting  feeling  encroach  one  step  on  the  domain  of 
reason.  He  habitually  treats  the  poetic  faculty  as  only  a 
graceful  and  pleasing  way  of  stating  things  ;  the  substance 
and  essence  of  things  being  determinable  only  by  the 
severer  faculties.  He  thus  excludes,  at  least  in  set  terms, 
from  the  highest  tribunal  the  testimony  of  that  vivified, 
interior  perception,  of  which  Wordsworth  and  Emerson 
are  the  highest  expressions  in  literature,  and  which  be- 
longs to  the  religious  mystic  of  whatever  creed.  He  ex- 
cludes this  witness  in  set  terms  and  in  theory ;  but  his 
nature  was  too  wide  to  forbid  generous  inconsistency, 
and,  as  if  in  spite  of  his  severer  self,  he  sometimes  gives 
exquisite  expression  to  the  mystic's  sense  of  "the  light 
that  never  was  on  sea  or  land."  But  as  a  philosopher,  he 
belonged  to  the  more  exact  and  scientific  school,  and  this 
although  he  was  perpetually  attracted  to  themes  which 


74  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

merge  in  the  infinite,  and  transcend  all  finite  expression. 
A  friend,  Dr.  Lietch,  wrote  of  him  after  his  death  that  a 
habitual  expression,  characteristic  of  his  whole  thought, 
was  "  Yes  ;  but  I  want  to  know  definitely." 

If  the  higher  realities  and  relations  of  man's  nature 
can  never  find  perfect  expression  in  exact  and  scientific 
terms,  yet  to  William  Smith,  and  to  his  generation  as  well 
as  our  own,  there  was  set  as  legitimate  and  as  vast  a  task 
for  philosophy  as  ever  was  given  to  man.  An  immense 
volume  of  new  knowledge  is  being  furnished  by  science 
in  its  various  branches,  -It  is  the  office  of  philosophy  to 
mould  the  new  with  the  old  knowledge  into  some  approx- 
imate conception  of  man  in  his  entirety,  and  of  the  uni- 
verse in  its  spiritual  as  well  as  external  relations.  It  is 
the  work  of  the  philosopher  to  discover  the  harmony 
which  unites  the  various  facts  of  existence.  It  is  the 
hope  of  the  religious  philosopher  to  discern  that  there  ex- 
ists not  only  harmony,  but  moral  order  and  divine  benefi- 
cence. 

This,"then,  was  the  inquiry,  immense,  many-sided,  per- 
petually recurring,  which  engaged  and  fascinated  the 
man  we  are  contemplating  through  all  his  earthly  years. 
His  life  went  on  meantime  in  other  functions.  He  found 
worthy  and  congenial  literary  work,  upon  themes  less  ab- 
struse. He  became  almost  by  profession  a  literary  critic. 
He  saw  and  studied  and  pictured,  in  essays,  letters, 
dramas,  the  beauties  of  nature,  the  works  of  art,  the 
various  play  of  human  life.  But  in  his  own  musings  he 
perpetually  reverted  to  the  greatest  problems  of  all ;  and 
it  was  as  material  for  these  problems  that  art  and  nature 
and  humanity  had  for  him  their  deepest  interest. 

Must,  then,  Religion  stand  idle  until  Philosophy  works 
out  its  question  ?  Must  the  ship  drift  on  an  aimless 
course  so  long  as  its  master  cannot  get  a  clear  observa- 
tion of  the  heavenly  bodies  ?  The  best  answer  is  given 
by  individual  lives  such  as  our  generation  has  witnessed 


"GIVEN  SELF,    TO  FIND   GOD."  75 

not  a  few,  and  of  which  Clough  and  William  Smith  are 
typical.  In  their  most  troubled  periods,  we  see  neither  of 
them  failing  in  moral  fidelity.  In  each  there  was  always 
recognized  by  his  associates  a  rare  quality  of  purity  and 
of  sweetness.  There  was  forbidden  to  them  such  kinds 
of  beneficent  labor  as  are  wrought  by  the  reformer  of 
society  or  the  apostle  of  an  ardent  faith.  They  were 
withdrawn  to  lonelier  tasks,  tasks  which  even  to  their  own 
hearts  seemed  often  to  promise  no  outcome  of  good  to  the 
world.  But  there  is  a  virtue  of  silence  and  humility, 
which  may  be  not  less  noble  than  the  zeal  of  the  reformer 
or  the  apostle. 

By  the  unquestioning  believer,  any  religion  which  the 
speculative  inquirer  may  possess  is  likely  to  be  regarded 
as  cold.  Whatever  excellence  it  may  have,  he  thinks,  it 
cannot  know  the  tenderness,  the  ardor,  which  belong  to 
the  worshipper  of  Christ.  We  are  told  that  a  young  niece 
of  William  Smith,  with  the  self-assertion  of  early  youth, 
once  tried  to  force  upon  him  some  theological  discussion, 
and  by  way  of  reply  he  put  into  her  hand  these  verses  :  — 

There  is  a  sweetness  in  the  world's  despair, 

There  is  a  rapture  of  serenity, 
When,  severed  quite  from  earthly  hope  or  care, 

The  heart  is  free  to  suffer  or  to  die. 

The  crown,  the  palm,  of  saints  in  Paradise, 
My  wearied  spirit  doth  not  crave  to  win, 

Breathe  —  in  thy  cup,  O  Christ,  of  agonies,  — 
Breathe  thy  deep  love,  and  let  me  drink  therein. 

To  weep  as  thou  hast  wept,  I  ask  no  more, 
Be  mine  the  sorrows  that  were  known  to  thee  ; 

To  the  bright  heavens  I  have  no  strength  to  soar, 
But  I  would  find  thee  on  thy  Calvary. 

But  he  that  loseth  his  life  shall  save  it ;  and  in  the 
truth-seeker's  self-renunciation  there  is  a  prophecy  of  a 
sunrise  beyond  the  darkness,  not  for  himself  alone,  but  for 


76  WILLIAM  SMJTH. 

the  world.  Clough,  in  "  The  New  Sinai,"  represents  the 
resolute  abandonment  of  a  creed  become  incredible,  as  the 
Israelites  left  behind  them  the  gods  of  Egypt :  — 

Though  old  Religion  shake  her  head 

And  say  in  bitter  grief, 
"  The  day  behold,  at  first  foretold, 

Of  atheist  unbelief," 
Take  better  part,  with  manly  heart, 

Thine  adult  spirit  can  ; 
Receive  it  not,  believe  it  not, 

Believe  it  not,  O  Man  ! 

Then  follows  the  view  of  the  world  as  a  mechanism  of 
blind  force,  a  view  as  dark  as  the  cloud  and  blackness 
which  wrapped  Sinai  when  Moses  went  upon  the  mount ; 
the  people  going  back  to  worship  their  old  gods  and  the 
golden  calf ;  the  "  prophet-soul  sublimely  meek  "  seeking 
Deity  within  the  cloud,  the  heart  of  man  bidden  mean- 
while neither  to  go  back  nor  to  despair. 

No  God,  it  saith  ;  oh,  wait  in  faith 

God's  self -completing  plan  ; 
Receive  it  not,  but  leave  it  not, 
And  wait  it  out,  O  Man  ! 

Devout  indeed,  that  priestly  creed 

O  Man,  reject  as  sin  ; 
The  clouded  hill  attend  thou  still 

And  him  that  went  within. 

He  yet  shall  bring  some  worthy  thing 

For  waiting  souls  to  see  : 
Some  sacred  word  that  he  hath  heard 

Their  light  and  life  shall  be  ; 
Some  lofty  part,  than  which  the  heart 

Adopt  no  nobler  can, 
Thou  shalt  receive,  thou  shalt  believe, 

And  thou  shalt  do,  O  Man  ! 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"A   DISCOURSE   ON    ETI 

"  In  1839,"  says  the  Memoir,  "  William  Smith  pub- 
lished 'A  Discourse  on  Ethics  of  the  School  of  Paley.' 
*  The  late  Professor  Ferrier '  (I  quote  from  the  obituary 
notice  in  the  *  Scotsman')  4  used  to  speak  of  this  pam- 
phlet —  in  bulk  it  is  nothing  more  — as  one  of  the  best 
written  and  most  ingeniously  reasoned  attacks  upon  Cud- 
worth's  doctrine  that  had  ever  appeared.'  It  is  interest- 
ing to  find  that  the  favorite  brother,  Theyre,  —  William's 
fellow-student  at  Glasgow,  —  who  had  now  for  several 
years  been  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England,  and 
was  Hulsean  Lecturer  in  1839-40,  adopted  the  opposite 
standpoint,  and  in  the  notes  to  the  second  volume  of  his 
lectures  vigorously  contends  against  the  theory  put  forth 
in  the  '  Discourse  on  Ethics,'  while  admitting,  with  evi- 
dent satisfaction,  that  it  had  never  '  met  with  a  more  in- 
genious as  well  as  eloquent  advocate.' ' 

Could  this  paragraph  have  been  read  by  William 
Smith,  one  fancies  that  a  quiet  smile  might  have  played 
about  his  lips.  It  justly  describes  what  the  "  Discourse 
on  Ethics  "  purports  to  be,  —  an  argument  upon  one  side 
of  a  long-debated  and  familiar  question :  namely,  Whether 
the  sense  of  moral  obligation  in  man  is  an  original  and 
primary  instinct,  or  a  derived  and  compounded  principle. 
It  is  an  old  theme  of  metaphysicians ;  Christians  and 
churchmen  are  found  on  both  sides  of  the  debate  ;  'the  au- 
thor of  this  treatise  ranks  himself  under  the  banner  of  the 
orthodox  Paley,  and  professes  only  to  develop  more  fully 
a  theory  whose  substance  is  virtually  implied  in  Paley's 


78  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

avowals.  If  the  line  of  his  advance  seems  sometimes  to 
run  along  perilous  ground,  yet  his  flank  is  always  care- 
fully protected ;  he  is  writing,  so  he  reminds  us,  only 
about  what  we  know  by  the  light  of  nature,  and  leaves 
untouched  that  inner  stronghold  of  faith  which  is  given 
by  the  revelations  and  sanctions  of  supernatural  Christian- 
ity. The  author's  strong  confidence  in  his  own  views  is 
expressed  always  with  perfect  modesty,  dignity,  and  com- 
posure. 

It  is  impossible  in  a  brief  epitome  to  reproduce  even 
the  main  lines  of  the  discussion.  Its  leading  proposition 
is  embodied  in  this  paragraph  :  — 

The  feeling  of  responsibility  appears  to  issue  at  once  full- 
formed  from  the  recesses  of  the  individual  mind.  Be  happy ! 
Be  virtuous !  are  described  as  two  distinct  commands  of  nature, 
two  great  dictates  of  our  being,  which  in  general  are  in  per- 
fect harmony,  but  of  which  the  second  is  to  take  precedence 
whenever  that  harmony  is  disturbed.  Now  as  an  account  of 
what  is  immediately  felt  by  the  moral  man,  this  is  not  inaccu- 
rate. There  are  these  two  commands,  Be  happy  !  Be  virtuous ! 
and  the  second,  from  its  nature,  domineers  over  the  first.  But, 
nevertheless,  the  second,  we  say,  is  in  fact  a  modification  of  the 
first;  and  this  moral  sentiment,  however  authoritative,  is  but  a 
result  of  the  play  of  our  desires  and  the  exercise  of  our  reason, 
under  a  social  condition  of  existence. 

Briefly  stated :  "  Eight  and  wrong  are  good  and  evil 
with  the  authoritative  stamp  of  general  approval."  In 
fuller  words :  Whatever  action  makes  for  human  happi- 
ness is  intrinsically  good ;  whatever  makes  for  human 
misery  is  intrinsically  bad.  The  mere  perception  that  an 
action  makes  for  happiness  or  misery  carries  with  it  a 
sort  of  command  to  seek  or  shun ;  "  the  knowledge  of 
what  is  best  must  bind  a  rational  being."  But  this  orig- 
inal rational  impulse  toward  the  "best,"  that  is,  to- 
ward the  action  which  tends  to  produce  happiness,  is  im- 
mensely reinforced  in  the  individual  by  the  voice  of  the 


"A   DISCOURSE   ON  ETHICS."  79 

community  praising  or  blaming  him;  it  gets  such  new 
force  and  color  that  new  terms  are  needful  to  describe  it, 
and  the  choice  of  the  better  or  the  worse  is  invested  with 
the  name  of  "  right  "  and  "  wrong,"  with  all  the  tremen- 
dous associations  which  gather  about  those  words.  The 
sense  of  morality  is  thus  a  creation  of  public  opinion : 
"  This  moral  sentiment,  however  authoritative,  is  but  a  re- 
sult of  the  play  of  our  desires  and  the  exercise  of  our  rea- 
son, under  a  social  condition  of  existence."  But,  having 
thus  been  developed  by  the  social  atmosphere,  the  moral 
sentiment  acquires  an  independent  authority,  and  the 
good  man  no  longer  governs  himself  by  the  opinions  of 
his  neighbors,  but  by  his  own  conviction  of  right. 

The  essential  temper  in  which  our  essayist  follows  his 
quest  is  instanced  in  these  words  :  — 

There  is  mystery  enough  in  and  about  our  being,  the  world 
rolls  on  encompassed  by  it,  and  I  am  far  from  ranking  myself 
with  those  who  think  there  is  no  place  and  no  recognition  for  it 
in  a  philosophic  mind.  But  morality,  which  springs  from  and 
concerns  the  palpable  business  of  men,  ought  not  to  be  treated  in 
a  vein  of  mystery.  Nothing  is  gained,  even  to  our  admiration, 
by  endeavouring  to  invest  our  moral  feelings  at  once  in  a  sort  of 
celestial  panoply.  The  natural  and  true  proportions  of  the  hu- 
man mind,  as  of  the  human  form,  contain,  after  all,  the  only 
beauty ;  it  is  of  little  use  to  deck  the  figure  of  humanity  with 
painted  wings  that  cannot  fly,  to  the  hindrance  and  disparage- 
ment of  the  natural  limbs  which  Heaven  has  assigned  to  it. 

This  is  the  keynote  of  the  modern  search  into  the  na- 
ture of  man  as  revealed  in  the  history  of  man.  The  book 
is  pervaded  by  the  spirit  of  modern  science,  and  much  of 
its  substance  is  an  anticipation  of  what  has  been  said,  not 
with  more  force  and  eloquence,  but  with  wider  hearing,  in 
later  days.  The  force  of  its  arguments  —  of  which  not 
even  the  heads  can  be  given  here  —  lies  in  the  explana- 
ations  they  offer  of  broad  facts  of  human  society.  We 
have  a  theory  generated  in  an  imaginative  brooding  upon 


80  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

a  few  certain  facts  of  a  period  long  past ;  then  we  have 
the  hypothesis  tested  by  its  adequacy  to  explain  all  the 
phenomena  which  lie  within  its  field.  It  is  assumed  at 
the  outset,  on  the  ground  of  evidence  now  familiar  and 
abundant,  that  mankind  once  existed  in  some  primitive 
and  savage  state,  whence  some  of  its  branches  gradually 
rose  to  civilization.  Then  the  student  considers  the  ele- 
ments which  must  be  found  in  the  lowest  state  of  man- 
kind we  can  imagine  —  such  as  the  sensitiveness  to  pain 
and  pleasure,  the  feeling  of  anger  and  of  affection,  the 
sense  of  social  sympathy.  From  these  elements  alone,  he 
asks,  could  a  moral  sentiment  be  gradually  educed?  In 
imagination  he  follows  out  such  a  process.  Then  he  in- 
quires :  Does  such  an  origin  of  the  moral  sense  harmonize 
with  what  we  know  of  the  various  forms  and  workings  in 
which  the  moral  sense  actually  displays  itself  among  the 
various  sorts  of  men  ?  Into  the  wide  and  rich  field  of  il- 
lustration on  which  our  author  enters,  space  forbids  us  to 
follow  him.  Nor  does  it  lie  within  our  province  to  weigh 
his  arguments  against  the  opposite  school.  But  we  may 
give  illustrations  of  the  temper  which  pervades  his  discus- 
sion, enough  to  show  that  his  theory  banishes  neither 
loftiness  of  motive,  nor  imaginative  grandeur. 

No  cramped  horizon  bounds  his  view ;  splendors  are 
not  lacking  to  his  vision  of  humanity.  Below  all  the 
changes  of  time  stands  an  abiding  foundation. 

The  only  immutable  morality  is  this,  that  the  happiness  of  all 
be  protected  and  cultivated.  This  is  a  precept  which  knows 
no  change,  —  an  eternal  truth,  recognised,  we  may  be  sure,  in 
every  condition  in  every  region  wherein  reasonable  beings  have 
their  abode;  and  the  spirit  of  benevolence  which  animates  this 
precept  is  that  unchangeable  goodness  which  is  virtue  every- 
where, which  is  gold  in  all  climes,  —  that  goodness  which  has 
its  rest  in  the  mind  of  the  Eternal. 

There  appears  a  singularly  even  appreciation  of  two 
different  types  of  virtue,  the  self-sustained  and  the  de- 
pendent :  — 


"A   DISCOURSE   ON  ETHICS."  81 

The  same  power  which  breaks  and  subdues  to  obedience 
also  elevates  to  self-respect ;  and  the  world,  after  having  bound 
and  tutored  its  pupil  to  its  own  service  and  allegiance,  throws 
him  back  in  an  attitude  of  proud  reliance  upon  himself.  .  .  . 

And  let  me  add  that  no  man,  because  he  views  with  just  ad- 
miration the  magnanimity  of  that  virtue  which  suffices  to  itself, 
and  is  its  own  reward,  ought  to  yield  therefore  a  cold  and  reluc- 
tant praise  of  that  humbler  sentiment  which  clings  with  close 
dependence  to  the  approbation  of  neighbours  and  of  fellow-men. 
This  last  is  the  more  frequent  and  perhaps  the  safer  guide.  He 
who  should  ta^e  his  conscience  altogether  from  the  keeping  of 
society  would  place  it  in  a  perilous  position.  His  proud  inde- 
pendence might  operate  for  evil,  as  well  as  for  good.  There  is 
a  limit  to  the  boldness  of  virtue,  and  just  on  the  other  side  of  the 
boundary  lies  the  boldness  of  crime. 

In  the  generous  spirit  there  is  apt  to  be  a  kind  of  im- 
patience with  any  theory  which  finds  in  happiness  our 
"  being's  end  and  aim."  The  heart  responds  to  Carlyle's 
stirring  words  :  "  There  is  in  man  a  higher  than  love  of 
happiness;  he  can  do  without  happiness,  and  in  place 
thereof  find  blessedness !  "  Yet  can  we  accept  this  senti- 
ment as  sufficient  for  human  nature's  daily  food  ?  Man  is 
a  poor  creature  truly  unless  he  can  endure  the  eclipse  of 
happiness,  but  must  he  be  willing  that  its  sun  should  for- 
ever disappear  from  the  sky  ?  To  do  justice  to  the  two 
attitudes  —  the  defiant  heroism  which  rises  to  a  spiritual 
emergency,  and  on  the  other  hand  humanity's  deep,  persist- 
ent desire  for  happiness  —  belongs  only  to  a  rare  and  well- 
poised  mind ;  such  a  mind  as  speaks  in  these  words  :  — 

To  expect  one  tone  of  moral  feeling  from  all  mankind,  what 
is  it  but  to  expect  one  mode  of  happiness,  one  temper  of  mind, 
one  fortune,  and  one  taste,  from  all  the  race  of  man  ?  He  who, 
after  familiarizing  himself  with  the  stern  morality  of  the  Stoic 
school,  turns  his  observation  upon  some  domestic  scene  of  civil- 
ized life,  and  on  the  manners  of  amiable  and  enlightened  men, 
feels  that  the  rigid  fortitude  and  ardour  of  endurance,  which  he 
has  been  contemplating,  have  here  no  place,  no  meaning,  no 


82  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

purpose.  A  moral  force  of  far  more  temperate  and  bland  de- 
scription is  quite  sufficient  for  scenes,  and  for  men,  like  these. 
Nay,  if  he  looks  at  society  in  some  aspects,  he  may  be  surprised 
to  find  how  great  a  part  of  the  business  of  life  is  transacted 
without  the  direct  observable  interference  of  a  moral  control, 
which  seems  rather  to  have  prescribed  to  men  at  once  their 
career,  than  to  accompany  them  at  each  step  of  their  progress. 
Men  labour  at  their  several  callings  —  all  the  world  is  abroad 
from  the  rising  of  the  sun  to  the  going  down  thereof  —  in  full 
activity,  need  and  ambition  constraining  and  impelling  them, 
and  only  now  and  then,  when  a  shock  is  given  to  the  usual 
tenor  of  existence,  do  they  raise  serious  question  as  to  what  the 
conscience  will  or  will  not  permit.  Habit  does  it  all,  and  seems 
everywhere  to  ordain  and  to  disallow.  But  if  the  same  observer 
carries  still  further  his  examinations,  he  will  not  fail  to  discover 
some  positions  in  life  where  the  sternest  moral  resolution  and  a 
sort  of  desperation  in  virtue  are  not  more  than  enough  to  pre- 
serve the  mind  from  dejection,  from  utter  overthrow,  and  total 
alienation  from  existence.  Such  positions  produce  what  they 
require.  A  moral  sentiment,  strongly  excited,  and  put  to  con- 
stant and  severe  task-work,  becomes  separated  in  the  mind  of 
its  possessor  from  all  that  the  world  is  accustomed  to  call  hap- 
piness. The  end  of  virtue  is  lost  sight  of  in  the  efforts  of  vir- 
tue. It  becomes  its  own  end  and  purpose ;  a  virtue  militant, 
contending  for  a  cause  apparently  quite  distinct  from  the  hope- 
less and  abandoned  one  of  human  felicity. 

I  respect,  I  revere,  the  high  tone  of  moral  feeling  which 
conducts  to  this  state  of  opinion.  Next  to  the  cheerful  calm 
of  prosperous  hours,  what  more  valued  boon  can  Providence 
bestow  than  this  stubborn  independent  philosophy,  so  fitted  to 
adverse  and  distressful  seasons  ?  The  afflicted  spirit  assumes 
a  greatness  which  almost  puts  to  shame  the  gay  and  the  fortu- 
nate. The  form  of  the  moral  hero  is  seen  to  dilate  as  the  gloom 
falls  around  it.  I  respect,  I  say,  this  noble  consolation  which 
the  virtuous  man,  beset  by  calamity,  finds  in  the  simple  exag- 
gerated claim  of  virtue ;  I  leave  him  in  undisturbed  and  im- 
perturbable possession  of  a  philosophic  faith  which  imparts  new 
energies  to  a  mind  else  drooping  and  self-deserted ;  but  I  can- 
not consent  to  impose  on  all  mankind  a  sentiment  so  exclusively 


"  A    DISCOURSE   ON  ETHICS."  83 

rrv>ropriate  to  the  position  and  temper  of  a  few  ;  I  cannot  re- 
peat as  dogmatic  truth  for  the  reception  of  all  the  world  what 
the  mind  gives  forth  as  truth  for  itself  under  peculiar  circum- 
stances, and  in  the  hour  of  its  need  and  tribulation.  If  the 
heart  of  man,  some  gayer  moralist  might  say,  is  to  be  thus  con- 
sulted as  an  oracle  of  truth,  why  should  we  prefer  its  sadder  to 
its  more  cheerful  responses  ?  Why  should  we  consult  the  oracle 
when  invested  in  clouds  and  darkness,  and  not  trust  as  well  to 
what  it  utters  when  light  is  breaking  upon  all  things,  and  it 
gives  its  answer  in  music  to  the  morning  beam  ?  The  mind  at 
ease  says  nothing  of  the  vanity  of  all  things,  never  decries  the 
pursuit  of  reasonable  pleasure,  never  divorces  the  claims  of  vir- 
tue from  the  cause  of  happiness. 

Throughout  the  book  there  is  kept  up  in  terms  a  care- 
ful distinction  between  the  obligations  of  natural  morality 
and  whatever  further  sanctions  may  be  derived  from  su- 
pernatural religion.  "  Religion  has  with  us  its  distinct 
and  proper  source :  we  have  Heaven's  own  word  for  what 
we  believe  of  Heaven.  The  Christian  .  .  .  practises 
morality  from  motives  which  no  system  of  ethics  can 
supply."  But  it  needs  very  little  reading  between  the  lines 
to  discern  that  this  formal  recognition  of  Christianity  as  a 
distinct  source  of  knowledge  is  purely  for  the  benefit  of  a 
supposititious  reader,  and  is  not  the  conviction  of  the 
writer's  own  mind.  The  validity  of  supernatural  revela- 
tion is  not  the  issue  he  is  discussing,  nor  has  he  any  wish 
to  discuss  it.  Upon  himself  the  renunciation  of  it  —  for 
that  by  this  time  the  renunciation  was  complete  in  his 
mind  is  hardly  to  be  doubted  —  has  been  sadly,  unwill- 
ingly forced :  let  others  keep  it  if  they  may ;  to  an  apos- 
tolate  of  denial  he  feels  not  the  slightest  vocation.  So 
throughout  his  discussion  of  ethics  he  concedes  as  undis- 
puted ground  whatever  may  be  claimed  for  a  sanction 
superadded  by  Heaven  to  the  morality  generated  in  the 
natural  processes  of  society. 

Yet  —  for  well  he  knows   that    on   the   path   he   has 


84  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

silently  trodden  there  will  in  time  many  follow  —  yet  he 
will  share  with  his  readers  one  keen,  searching  gaze  into 
the  inmost  realm  of  human  thought.  He  brings  them  to 
it,  as  it  were,  by  a  side-door,  to  consider  the  result  that 
would  follow  from  a  hypothesis  which  they  may  consider 
purely  fanciful ;  so  that  from  any  unwelcome  conclusions 
they  may  have  an  easy  retreat.  In  the  latter  half  of  his 
closing  chapter,  he  raises  the  question  as  if  in  mere  spec- 
ulative curiosity :  If  we  had  no  divine  revelation,  what 
could  the  unaided  mind  discern  of  God  ? 

The  displacement  of  the  old  religions  by  Christianity  is 
simply  mentioned  as  a  fact,  without  discussing  the  sources 
whence  the  new  faith  sprang.  In  place  of  this,  the  essay- 
ist shows  how  paganism,  if  it  had  not  yielded  to  Chris- 
tianity, must  have  fallen  before  that  knowledge  of  the 
world  which  science  brings  in. 

To  us  in  whom  the  first  deceptive  impression  of  the  senses 
has  been  corrected  almost  as  soon  as  we  could  think,  by  knowl- 
edge it  cost  ages  to  acquire,  and  other  ages  to  extend  and  circu- 
late —  to  us  it  js  a  curious  and  distinct  effort  of  the  imagination 
to  conceive  what  manner  of  world  this  was  to  its  earlier  inhabit- 
ants. They  lived  —  at  least  the  multitude,  and  the  multitude  are 
in  this  matter  everything  —  in  a  very  straitened,  circumscribed 
creation,  —  a  flat  and  stationary  earth,  arched  over  by  the  sky 
as  by  its  natural  roof.  In  this  miniature  of  nature  the  human 
form  was  great.  A  god  was  invested  in  it  without  thought  of 
violation  to  his  dignity,  and  men  assigned  him  for  habitation  a 
region  just  beyond  the  clouds,  or  else  the  waste  and  inaccessible 
places  of  their  own  world,  the  air,  and  the  ocean,  and  tops  of 
mountains,  and  caverns  in  the  rock.  The  humanized  divinity 
had  a  fit  location,  and  could  be  supported  in  the  imagination 
without  much  incongruity.  But  what  if  such  forms  had  con- 
tinued to  exist  till  Science  had  worked  her  great  transformation  ? 
When  Astronomy  had  dislodged  the  rounded  world  from  its  rest 
at  the  centre  of  all  things,  and  sent  it  to  revolve  on  its  wide  cir- 
cuit, one  only  of  a  multitude  of  similar  and  far-scattered  globes, 
when  that  arch  which  so  securely  overbuilt  it  had  expanded  into 


"A   DISCOURSE  ON  ETHICS."  85 

a  limitless  vacancy  and  left  the  earth  diminished,  and  alone,  and 
far  from  the  gates  of  Heaven,  what  place,  what  function,  would 
have  remained  to  the  astonished  gods  of  Olympus  ?  Had  they 
survived  till  our  day  of  science,  they  must  have  then  vanished 
like  a  dream. 

As  pure  hypothesis  he  then  asks,  What  course  would 
the  general  mind  take  if  it  were  to  relinquish  as  unreal 
the  light  of  Christian  revelation  ? 

If  without  irreverence  we  might  venture  to  suppose  the  with- 
drawal from  the  world,  for  a  season,  of  the  Christian  doctrine, 
though  we  should  lose  indeed  the  incalculable  benefit  of  a  faith 
the  sole  medium  of  salvation,  and  therefore,  as  regards  our  eter- 
nal interest,  be  utterly  bankrupt  and  ruined ;  yet  so  far  as  piety 
is  a  sentiment  controlling  the  heart  and  elevating  the  character 
of  man,  we  might  not,  perhaps,  be  left  in  so  destitute  and  de- 
plorable a  condition  as  those  who  love  religion  are  apt  to  fear, 
and  those  few  who  are  its  enemies  are  accustomed  without  any 
pain  to  anticipate.  There  are  certain  presumptions  of  a  reli- 
gious character,  already  hinted  at,  and  indeed  familiar  to  all 
minds,  which  so  readily  occur  to  human  thought,  and  these 
there  are  so  many  passions,  so  many  interests,  so  many  reasons, 
for  keeping  alive  in  ourselves,  and  upholding  in  the  belief  of 
others,  that  they  might  be  almost  as  generally  received,  or  at 
least  professed,  as  Christianity  at  the  present  day.  The  same 
feelings  which  perform  no  ineffectual  part  in  upholding  the 
authority  of  that,  as  of  every  religion ;  the  same  disquietude  of 
heart ;  the  same  aspirations  after  a  happier  existence ;  the 
same  desire  to  believe  in  another  region,  though  it  be  fruitful 
only  of  present  hopes,  or  even  of  present  fears,  and  afford  but 
an  object  of  new  solicitude  and  endeavour ;  the  same  sense  of 
public  policy,  whether  made  effective  by  permanent  institutions, 
or  that  perpetual  and  all-pervading  force  of  general  opinion  that 
surrounds  us  like  another  atmosphere,  —  all  these  would  be 
equally  engaged  in  support  of  the  imperfect  tenets  and  more 
scanty  creed  of  natural  theology.  The  old  heart  of  humanity 
might  be  too  strong  for  all  the  fetters  which  science  would  im- 
pose. 


86  WILLIAM  SMITH 

To  the  philosophic  mind,  meanwhile,  there  remains  al- 
ways at  least  one  sentiment  of  religion. 

There  would  remain  at  least  one  source  of  profound,  anti- 
terrestial  sentiment,  which  can  never  be  closed  to  the  reflective 
mind,  and  which  no  scientific  knowledge  can  affect.  There  is  a 
mystery  within  and  around  us.  Let  science  complete  her  task, 
and  accomplish  all  which  the  most  enlarged  and  accurate  minds 
can  assign  for  her  province,  there  is  still  a  region  of  thought  — 
if  thought  it  can  be  called,  where  only  question  is  heard,  and 
no  response,  and  the  question  itself  is  scarce  intelligible  —  into 
which  she  can  make  no  incursions.  The  philosophy  of  Newton 
and  La  Place,  the  experimental  knowledge  of  all  Europe,  has 
not  encroached  one  inch  upon  this  territory.  It  is  the  same 
now  as  to  Chaldean  shepherds.  Where  are  we  ?  Whence  this 
whole  of  things  ?  Whither  ?  Wherefore  ?  These  are  the  same 
unanswerable  questions  as  when  they  first  were  asked,  and  the 
unbroken  silence  which  is  their  sole  return  makes  the  same 
deep  impression  on  the  human  heart.  Render  the  whole  world 
clear  and  transparent  to  scientific  vision ;  turn  it  before  us,  as 
it  were,  in  the  sun  ;  make  us  familiar  with  all  its  movements, 
intricate  and  incessant,  so  that  we  trace  the  precise  succession  of 
all  events  throughout  the  complicated  maze  ;  it  matters  not,  the 
whole  scene,  the  whole  circle  of  interwoven  incidents,  floats  on 
over  an  abyss  of  unfathomable  mystery.  .  .  . 

To  the  reflective  mind  this  dim  outlying  space  of  the  unknown 
and  impenetrable  has  a  strange  and  powerful  fascination.  That 
which  to  all  mankind  is  the  last  boundless  distance  suffusing  a 
scarcely  recognized  charm  over  the  near  landscape  of  life,  he 
fixes  on  with  strained  effort  of  vision.  There  where  the  line  is 
drawn,  as  well  to  human  passion  as  to  human  knowledge,  his 
gaze  is  arrested ;  he  would  pierce  through  the  sphere  of  endless 
change  into  the  still  eternity  beyond  ;  he  has  no  optics  for  such 
a  purpose,  —  he  has  no  power  to  withdraw.  From  such  a  mind 
you  may  take  temple  and  altar,  miracle  and  prophet,  you  can- 
not take  religion ;  you  may  obscure  the  form  of  Deity  —  pain- 
fully dark  it  may  grow  before  him,  you  will  not  abstract  all 
sentiment  of  piety :  he  bows  before  the  veiled  divinity,  he  still 
adores  an  unknown  God  ! 


«M   DISCOURSE  ON  ETHICS."  87 

The  words  die  upon  the  ear  like  a  strain  of  music, 
lovely  but  awful.  It  is  the  musician  himself  who  breaks 
the  hush,  as  he  turns  from  his  instrument  to  mingle  with 
the  crowd.  As  he  utters  again  the  common  speech,  it  is 
like  Prospero  bidding  farewell  to  his  enchantments,  and 
coming  back  from  Ariel  and  the  spirits  to  every-day  com- 
pany. "  But  happily  for  mankind,  the  conjecture  as  to 
what  form  natural  religion  might  of  itself  assume  is  for 
all  practical  purposes  as  useless  and  unnecessary  as  it 
is  to  the  speculative  inquirer  dark  and  intricate.  ...  If 
the  reader  in  his  study  of  practical  ethics  in  the  works  of 
Paley  and  others  should  find  himself  somewhat  less  em- 
barrassed than  before  by  subtle  questions  relative  to  the 
nature  of  the  moral  sentiment,  this  has  answered  the  ut- 
most and  sole  end  at  which  it  aspired."  And  he  ends  his 
treatise  with  this  disclaimer  of  any  unsettling  intent,  — 
a  disclaimer  that  would  seem  to  have  been  taken  seriously 
by  the  intellectual  world,  which  paid  little  heed  to  the 
message  until  it  was  uttered  by  later  and  louder  voices. 

Of  that  message,  so  far  as  it  relates  to  natural  religion, 
we  may  say :  it  is  the  utterance  of  a  reverent  and  pious 
soul,  finding  itself  unhoused  from  the  old  familiar  dwell- 
ing-place of  reverence  and  piety,  and  brought  as  it  were 
suddenly  under  the  open  sky.  There  must  be  a  time  for 
readjustment  to  the  new  conditions,  —  the  eye,  long  used 
to  the  near  roof,  cannot  instantly  adjust  itself  to  the  cope 
of  heaven.  Deep  awe  there  must  be,  and  for  a  time  per- 
plexity and  depression  ;  yet  always  the  intent  gaze,  al- 
ways a  welcome  of  the  partial  light,  and  the  prophetic 
expectation  of  fuller  light.  This  man  had  in  his  sensi- 
tive childhood  been  familiarized  with  a  conception  of 
religion  under  the  most  definite  outlines,  with  full  provi- 
sion for  the  most  familiar  human  forms  of  relation  between 
the  soul  and  its  deity.  That  conception  had  faded  away, 
and,  though  years  had  already  passed  in  the  process,  yet 
the  adjustment  of  the  religious  sense  to  a  new  set  of  facts 
must  still  be  long  in  the  completing. 


88  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

To  ask  of  a  man  who  thus  finds  himself  confronted 
with  the  task  of  reshaping  from  the  foundation  the  be- 
liefs of  his  fathers,  —  to  ask  of  such  a  one  a  full  solution 
of  the  question  he  propounds  would  be  idle  indeed.  It 
has  been  set  before  him  as  his  life-work  to  make  what 
genuine,  modest  addition  he  can  to  the  common  store  of 
moral  truth.  And  we  find  him  at  the  outset  giving  elo- 
quent expression  to  what  in  later  years  has  been  offered 
by  some  as  the  adequate  or  only  provision  for  man's  re- 
ligious needs,  —  awe  in  the  presence  of  the  Unknowable. 
But  not  by  him  is  it  for  a  moment  offered  as  an  adequate 
religion,  —  religion,  whose  function  is  to  guide,  comfort, 
and  ennoble  the  lives  of  mankind.  It  is  but  as  one  phase 
of  one  class  of  minds  that  he  suggests  it,  —  a  phase  that 
may  in  them  endure  while  all  else  is  fluctuating.  At  the 
lowest  there  is  wonder  and  awe ;  at  the  highest,  at  the 
last,  shall  there  not  be  much  more  than  this !  More,  we 
must  say,  there  is  even  now  in  him  who  professes  only 
this.  All  true  worship  is  deeper  than  the  phrases  in 
which  it  clothes  itself.  This  worshipper  before  an  un- 
known God  feels  constrained  by  his  exacting  intellect  to 
say  that  of  absolute  knowledge  he  has  indeed  nothing ; 
that  it  is  only  the  blank  region  beyond  visible  space  on 
which  his  gaze  is  fixed.  But  the  emotion  that  fills  his 
words  is  deeper  and  more  sacred  than  mere  wonderment 
before  uncertainty.  A  "  veiled  divinity,"  an  "  unknown 
God  ?  "  Yes,  but  it  is  not  the  veil,  it  is  not  the  sense  of 
ignorance,  which  so  stirs  the  heart,  but  the  instinct  of 
some  highest  Divinity  behind  the  veil ;  the  sense  of  some 
holy  of  holies,  —  something  august  beyond  articulate 
thought. 

And  now  we  are  in  a  position  to  appreciate  the  motive 
and  the  value  of  that  ethical  speculation  which  constitutes 
the  body  of  the  treatise.  It  really  represents,  and  with 
an  original  and  important  modification,  one  of  the  two 
great  lines  of  effort  by  serious  thinkers  to  find  a  firm 


"A    DISCOURSE   ON  ETHICS."  89 

basis  and  sanction  for  human  morality,  independent  of 
that  reliance  upon  a  literal,  historical  revelation  in  the 
Scriptures  which  has  characterized  Protestantism.  The 
one  of  these  two  movements  is  represented  by  Kant,  who, 
admitting  an  inability  of  the  speculative  intellect  to  ar- 
rive at  absolute  truth,  finds  in  conscience  an  original, 
intuitive  faculty  of  the  mind,  giving  in  itself  an  authori- 
tative law  of  duty,  and  serving  also  as  a  sure  indication 
of  a  moral  governor  of  the  universe  by  whom  it  is  im- 
planted. Thus,  in  Kant's  theory,  conscience  as  an  intui- 
tive faculty  affords  both  a  law  of  conduct  and  an  assur- 
ance of  God.  The  theory  has  naturally  found  favor  in 
the  religious  world,  as  either  a  buttress  for  a  supernatural 
revelation,  or  a  substitute  for  it.  It  was  sure  to  arrest 
the  attention  of  an  inquirer  like  William  Smith.  But 
he  finds  it  quite  inadequate  to  meet  the  observed  fact  of 
the  immense  discrepancy  with  which  conscience  acts  in 
different  ages,  classes,  and  individuals.  This  inadequacy 
his  treatise  sets  forth  with  great  force.  Weighing  the 
familiar  rival  theory,  that  the  sense  of  duty  is  identical 
with  the  sense  of  utility,  he  evidently  finds  that  this  does 
not  of  itself  explain  the  more  authoritative  sentiment  as- 
sociated with  the  idea  of  duty.  He  is  led  to  conclude  that 
what  we  call  conscience  has  been  a  slow  development,  and 
as  the  potent  factor  in  giving  it  force  and  form  he  rec- 
ognizes the  influence  upon  the  individual  of  the  collective 
sentiment  of  his  fellows  in  praise  or  blame. 

To  the  scientific  mind,  the  test  of  every  theory  is :  Does 
it  harmonize  with  the  known  facts,  and  is  it  the  only 
hypothesis  that  does  harmonize  with  them  ?  If  yes,  then 
let  it  stand,  unless  new  facts  shall  overthrow  it ;  mean- 
time, practice  and  sentiment  must  make  their  account 
with  it  as  best  they  can,  but  they  may  not  set  it  aside. 

Accepting,  on  the  severe  ground  of  induction,  a  theory 
of  conscience  as  a  developed  and  not  an  original  faculty, 
William  Smith,  a  man  having  the  keenest  sense  of  the 


90  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

moral  and  religious  needs  of  men,  considers  how  this 
theory  meets  those  needs.  It  does  not  profess  to  find  any 
such  immediate,  authoritative  disclosure  of  a  moral  gov- 
ernor as  does  the  intuitive  theory,  a  profession  which 
avails  nothing  if  the  theory  is  overthrown  by  facts.  But 
his  view  recognizes  a  vast,  orderly,  progressive  scheme  of 
things,  suggestive  at  least  of  a  moral  order  underlying  the 
universe.  Clear  and  satisfactory  provision  for  worship 
he  does  not  yet  find.  But  we  have  a  provision,  holds  our 
essayist,  a  provision  firm  and  powerful,  for  the  conduct 
of  man  among  his  fellows.  For  the  enlightened  mind, 
this  is  the  obvious  elementary  principle :  "  That  the  hap- 
piness of  all  be  protected  and  cultivated  ;  "  and  "  the 
knowledge  of  what  is  best  must  bind  a  rational  being." 
As  an  external  force,  we  have  the  tremendous  engine  of 
public  sentiment :  — 

The  influence  of  society  a  weak,  insufficient  foundation  for 
the  moral  sentiment !  I  entreat  those  who  make  the  objection 
to  consider  what  and  how  great  a  thing  to  man  is  the  good 
opinion  of  his  fellow-man.  It  visits  him  in  every  relation  of 
humanity,  from  parents,  from  children,  from  neighbours,  from 
citizens;  it  is  equally  present  in  life  public  and  domestic;  it 
mingles  with  almost  every  enjoyment ;  it  is  blended,  either  as 
object  or  as  means,  with  every  hope  and  every  project  of  his 
existence.  .  .  .  Man  lives,  for  pleasure  or  for  pain,  in  deed  or 
in  thought,  in  constant  collision  with  his  fellow-men  ;  they  are 
beings  without  whom  he  can  do  nothing,  yet  as  they  are  beings 
of  the  same  passions  with  himself  they  have  conflicting  claims  ; 
he  must  yield,  he  must  compromise,  must  secure  their  friend- 
ship, must  avert  their  emnity.  A  new  want  arises,  perpetual, 
and  that  can  never  be  shaken  off  —  a  want  the  summary  of  a 
thousand  wants  —  the  want  of  the  good  opinion  of  these  fellow- 
men.  Is  this  a  motive,  a  part  of  our  mental  constitution,  likely 
to  fail  us,  —  to  grow  weak  and  languid  as  society  advances,  and 
becomes,  as  it  must  become,  more  and  more  complicated  ?  Is  it 
likely  to  decay  as  the  interests  of  life  become  more  keen,  wide- 
spreading,  and  interwoven  ?  God  has  set  men  to  be  rulers  over 


"A    DISCOURSE   ON  ETHICS."  91 

men  —  all  over  each ;  that  is  his  moral  government,  which  He 
has,  in  the  first  instance,  established  upon  the  earth,  —  a  gov- 
ernment which  must  continue  and  improve  with  every  improve- 
ment made  in  the  means  and  knowledge  of  happiness,  —  a  gov- 
ernment which  in  its  plan,  and  progress,  and  by  its  connection 
and  harmony  with  other  parts  of  the  system  of  nature,  claims 
to  have  sprung  from  the  Author  of  creation. 

And  now  that  he  has  spoken  his  deepest,  most  serious 
word,  he  returns  to  quiet  work,  upon  book  reviews  and 
sketches  and  one  or  two  dramas,  and  it  is  almost  twenty 
years  before  he  again  in  the  world's  hearing  recurs  to  the 
direct  discussion  of  the  greatest  themes  of  all,  whose  fas- 
cination for  him  has  never  intermitted. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    REVIEWER. 

IN  the  connection  with  "  Blackwood' s  Magazine," 
which  began  in  1839,  William  Smith  found  what  proved 
to  be  the  chief  external  business  of  his  life.  For  a  few 
years  longer  there  continued  some  formal  allegiance  to  the 
law,  but  writing  for  the  magazine,  principally  in  the  form 
of  literary  reviews,  soon  became  his  main  occupation.  It 
was  a  work  and  a  place  which  admirably  suited  him.  His 
contributions  brought  a  modest  income,  which  came  ere 
long  to  be  his  main  dependence.  For  such  a  man  litera- 
ture in  any  shape  could  never  be  a  lucrative  profession, 
and  it  was  much  to  find  in  it  a  resource  sufficient  for 
bread-winning  and  for  independence.  The  work  was  in 
the  direct  line  of  his  tastes  and  powers,  it  dealt  with 
congenial  and  beloved  themes,  yet  it  lay  apart  from  those 
fundamental  problems  of  thought  whose  fascination  had 
so  strong  an  element  of  disquiet.  There  would  seem  at 
first  an  incompatibility  between  a  speculator  so  daring  and 
heterodox,  and  the  organ  of  staunch  conservatism ;  all  the 
more,  since  the  articles  in  "  Blackwood  "  were  unsigned, 
and  stood  in  the  name  of  the  editorial  "  we."  But  Wil- 
liam Smith's  articles  dealt  neither  with  current  politics 
nor  with  theology,  and  in  the  fields  of  general  literature, 
poetry,  history,  and  metaphysics,  as  well  as  romance  and 
travel,  the  magazine  gave  all  the  scope  he  required. 

The  obituary  notice  of  him  in  "  Blackwood  "  (October, 
1872)  shows  in  what  high  estimation  he  was  held  by  its 
conductors,  who,  it  is  equally  plain,  were  at  a  wide  re- 
move from  that  attitude  in  religion  and  philosophy  which 


THE  REVIEWER.  93 

characterizes  "  Thorndale  "  and  "  Gravenhurst."  The 
more  noticeable  therefore  is  the  recognition  of  his  per- 
sonal traits. 

In  his  youth,  the  circle  of  young  men  who  surrounded  him  ex- 
pected for  him  the  highest  fame  ;  he  was  to  be  their  leader,  the 
foremost  in  all  intellectual  progress,  always  the  superior,  in  those 
visions  of  the  future  which  are  often  so  widely  apart  from  re- 
ality. But  if  others  passed  him  in  the  race,  pressed  on  higher, 
and  won  more  dazzling  prizes,  it  was  because  the  finer  qualities 
of  his  mind  outweighed  the  coarser,  and  fastidious  taste  and 
a  retiring  disposition  withdrew  him  from  the  common  arena, 
where,  amid  shouts  and  cheers  and  commonplace  din,  the  ordi- 
nary competitors  for  fame  take  their  places,  disregarding  all  its 
vulgar  circumstances.  He  could  not  disregard  them.  His  na- 
ture was  so  constituted  that  he  shrank  from  the  noises,  whether 
applausive  or  otherwise. 

No  better  type  could  be  found  of  the  true  man  of  letters,  the 
student,  scholar,  and  critic  of  our  days,  who  is  already  begin- 
ning to  yield  to  a  hastier  and  more  shallow  class  of  modern 
commentators.  He  was  not  of  those  who  dash  off  a  breathless 
criticism  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  or  arrogantly  pretend  to 
judge  of  subjects  upon  which  they  have  the  merest  smattering  of 
knowledge.  He  belonged  to  the  older  fashion  of  man,  who  had 
the  habit  of  mastering  a  subject  before  speaking  of  it,  and  of 
bringing  a  richly  cultivated  understanding,  a  mind  and  memory 
full  of  all  that  is  excellent  in  the  past,  to  the  consideration  of  the 
affairs  and  productions  of  the  present.  That  charm  of  culture 
which,  next  to  genius,  is  almost  the  most  delightful  of  mental 
conditions,  was  his  in  an  eminent  degree. 

In  finding  at  last  a  vocation  so  well  fitted  to  his  inclina- 
tion and  his  powers,  he  had  gained  one  of  the  prime  con- 
ditions of  happiness  and  content.  If  we  have  been  right 
in  discerning  in  "  Wild  Oats  "  the  traces  of  a  self-mastery 
and  recall  from  undisciplined  brooding  and  idleness,  we 
may  find  one  of  the  evidences  of  a  more  concentrated  and 
purposeful  life,  as  well  as  a  great  aid  to  it,  in  this  entry 
upon  periodical  literature  as  a  profession.  Fame  there 


94  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

was  none  from  anonymous  contributions,  but  there  was 
outlet  for  the  eager  faculties,  there  was  that  conscious- 
ness of  a  worthy  and  an  attentive  audience  which  is  the 
best  spur  to  a  true  author;  and  that  absorption  of  the 
writer's  personality  by  the  magazine  which  deprived  him 
of  personal  credit  weighted  his  words  to  the  world's  ear 
with  the  sanction  of  a  great  authority. 

He  was  inherently  a  judge  and  not  an  advocate,  and 
the  wool-sack  to  which  he  was  predestined  was  in  the 
courts  not  of  law  but  of  literature.  The  most  striking 
feature  of  his  reviews  is  the  quality  of  even-handed  jus- 
tice. He  makes  it  his  business  to  give  a  frank  and  dis- 
criminating award  upon  each  book's  merits  and  faults; 
to  instance  to  the  reader  its  quality  by  free  quotation,  — 
a  matter  in  which  he  is  far  more  generous  than  is  now 
the  usual  practice  of  reviewers;  and,  also,  to  discuss 
somewhat  from  his  own  standpoint  the  ground  which  the 
book  traverses.  The  easy  and  lucid  style  seldom  rises 
into  brilliance ;  there  is  a  generous  but  tempered  ardor ; 
the  constant  purpose  to  be  just  does  not  often  allow  the 
sparkle  of  epigram ;  but  now  and  then  there  occurs  a 
passage  of  delicate  and  melodious  grace.  The  contribu- 
tions of  the  earlier  years  are  diversified  by  brief  tales  and 
romances,  —  sometimes  with  an  underlying  moral,  some- 
times of  pure  amusement,  showing  the  mind  unbent  and 
the  fancy  in  free  play. 

From  this  broad  and  tempting  field  we  can  gather  here 
only  the  merest  handful,  —  so  choosing  as  to  illustrate  how 
some  phases  of  life  were  received  and  interpreted  by  this 
observer.  Let  us  take  first  a  scene  (u  Mildred,"  Decem- 
ber, 1846)  from  a  region  where  as  yet  we  have  had  no 
glimpse  of  him,  —  in  a  ball-room. 

Found  where  it  is,  it  is  certainly  a  remarkable  phenomenon, 
this  waltz.  Look  now  at  that  young  lady  —  how  cold,  formal, 
stately !  —  how  she  has  been  trained  to  act  the  little  queen 
amongst  her  admirers  and  flatterers  !  See  what  a  reticence  hi 


THE  REVIEWER.  95 

all  her  demeanour.  Even  feminine  curiosity,  if  not  subdued, 
has  been  dissimulated  ;  and  though  she  notes  everything  and 
everybody,  and  can  describe,  when  she  returns  home,  the  dress 
of  half  the  ladies  in  the  room,  it  is  with  an  eye  that  seems  to 
notice  nothing.  Her  head  has  just  been  released  from  the  hair- 
dresser, and  every  hair  is  elaborately  adjusted.  To  the  very 
holding  of  an  enormous  bouquet,  "  round  as  my  shield,"  which 
of  itself  seems  to  forbid  all  thoughts  of  motion  —  everything 
has  been  arranged  and  rearranged.  She  sits  like  an  alabaster 
figure ;  she  speaks,  it  is  true,  and  she  smiles  as  she  speaks  ;  but 
evidently  the  smile  and  the  speech  have  no  natural  connection 
with  one  another ;  they  coexist,  but  they  have  both  been  quite 
separately  studied,  prepared,  permitted.  Well,  the  waltz  strikes 
up,  and  at  a  word  from  that  bowing  gentleman,  himself  a  piece 
of  awful  formality,  this  pale,  slow,  and  graceful  automaton  has 
risen.  Where  is  she  now  ?  She  is  gone  —  vanished  —  trans- 
formed. She  is  nowhere  to  be  seen.  But  in  her  stead  there  is 
a  breathless  girl,  with  flushed  cheeks,  ringlets  given  to  the  wind, 
dress  flying  all  abroad,  spinning  round  the  room,  darting  diag- 
onally across  it,  whirling  fast  as  her  little  feet  can  carry  her  — 
faster,  faster  —  for  it  is  her  more  powerful  cavalier,  who,  hold- 
ing her  firmly  by  the  waist,  sustains  and  augments  her  speed. 

To  his  experience  in  the  law  we  owe  some  striking  pas- 
sages, of  which  one  may  be  given  from  "  Giacorno  da 
Valencia"  (September,  1847). 

"Science ! "  said  the  young  enthusiast,  "can  conclusions  wrested 
often  with  perverted  ingenuity  from  artificial  principles  and  ar- 
bitrary axioms  be  honoured  with  the  name  of  'science  ?  And 
the  law,  to  obtain  this  fictitious  resemblance  to  a  science,  leaves 
justice  behind  and  unthought  of.  I  will  study  it,  my  father,  as 
I  would  practise  any  mechanical  art,  if  you  should  prescribe  it 
as  a  means  of  being  serviceable  to  my  family ;  but  you  —  who 
are  a  scholar  —  ah !  place  not  a  tissue  of  technicalities,  however 
skilfully  interwoven,  on  a  level  with  truth  which  has  its  basis  in 
the  nature  of  things.  I  would  help  my  fellow-man  to  justice ; 
but  must  I  spend  my  life,  and  dry  up  and  impoverish  my  very 
soul,  in  regulating  his  disputes  according  to  rules  that  are  some- 
thing very  different  from  justice  ?  —  often  mere  logical  deduc- 


96  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

tions  from  certain  legal  abstractions,  in  which  all  moral  right 
and  wrong,  —  all  substantial  justice  between  man  and  man,  is 
utterly  forgotten  ?  " 

"  My  son,"  said  the  father,  "  you  are  young,  and  therefore 
rash.  You  think  it,  perhaps,  an  easy  thing  to  do  justice  between 
man  and  man.  We  cannot  do  justice  between  man  and  man. 
No  combination  of  honesty  and  intelligence  can  effect  it ;  the 
whole  compass  of  society  affords  no  means  for  its  accomplish- 
ment. To  administer  moral  justice,  each  case  must  be  decided 
on  its  own  peculiar  merits,  and  those  merits  are  to  be  found  in 
the  motives  of  the  human  heart.  We  cannot  promise  men  jus- 
tice. But  we  must  terminate  their  disputes.  Therefore  it  is  we 
have  a  system  of  law  —  our  only  substitute  for  justice  —  by 
which  men  are  contented  to  be  governed  because  it  is  a  system, 
and  applicable  to  all  alike.  Believe  me,  that  wise  and  able  men 
of  all  countries  are  well  occupied  in  rendering  more  symmetri- 
cal, more  imposing,  and  as  little  immoral  and  unjust  as  possible, 
their  several  systems  of  jurisprudence." 

The  most  remarkable  of  the  contributions  inspired  by 
the  reviewer's  legal  experience  is  the  story  entitled  "  Man- 
ner and  Matter"  (October,  1845).  The  interest  of  the 
narrative  holds  the  attention,  and  suggests  no  suspicion 
of  a  moral,  till  the  catastrophe  sends  it  home  with  start- 
ling force.  The  story  is  that  of  a  rich  man  who  forces  one 
of  small  means  into  a  chancery  suit,  and  completely  ruins 
him  by  legal  expenses.  "  The  only  remedy "  for  such 
mischiefs  "  would  be  this :  That  the  State  administer  civil 
justice,  at  its  own  expense,  to  rich  and  poor  alike  ;  that, 
as  it  protects  each  man's  life  and  limb,  so  it  should  pro- 
tect each  man's  property  —  which  is  the  means  of  life, 
which  is  often  as  essential  to  him  as  the  limbs  by  which 
he  moves.  This  is  the  only  mode  of  realizing  that  4  equal 
justice '  which  at  present  is  the  vain  boast  of  every  sys- 
tem of  jurisprudence,  when  the  suitor  has  to  pay  for  pro- 
tection to  his  property." 

Rarely  does  our  author  appear  to  better  advantage 
than  when  he  is  dealing  with  the  giants  who  in  their 


THE  REVIEWER.  97 

greatness  break  through  metes  and  bounds.  His  appre- 
ciation of  their  grandeurs,  his  own  steady  regard  for  the 
laws  they  contemn,  and  the  delicate  humor  which  their 
extravagances  provoke,  stand  out  in  fine  relief  against  the 
turbulent  splendors  of  men  like  Carlyle  and  Victor  Hugo 
and  Ruskin.  He  comments  thus  on  Victor  Hugo's  book 
upon  Shakespeare  (August,  1864). 

It  is  useless  to  raise  objections  or  detect  faults  ;  absurdities 
are  too  numerous  and  glaring ;  they  seem  perfectly  conscious  of 
themselves  and  defy  you.  Yet  it  would  be  a  still  greater  mis- 
take to  adopt  a  tone  of  derision  or  of  contempt.  Ridicule  is 
soon  checked  by  some  terrible  earnestness,  and  by  a  display  of 
power  that  forces  respect.  One  cannot  laugh  comfortably  at 
the  gambols  of  a  giant.  What  if  he  should  come  too  near 
where  we  ourselves  are  standing  ?  If  Achilles  should  issue  from 
his  tent  and  race  madly  about  the  field,  going  through  his  mar- 
tial exercises  in  some  wild,  maniacal  fashion,  yet  now  and  then 
throwing  his  heavy  spear  with  truest  aim  and  marvellous  power, 
we  should  look  on  with  more  of  gravity  than  mirth.  And  some 
such  impression  is  produced  by  this  Titan  amongst  writers. 
There  is  no  proposition  so  rash  or  monstrous  that  he  fears  to  as- 
sert it ;  there  is  no  word  so  harsh,  rude,  or  grotesque  that  he  will 
not  use  it.  Sometimes  this  terrible  rhetorician  heaps  word  on 
word,  adds  name  to  name,  till  he  leaves  us  stunned  and  sense- 
less at  the  end  of  his  lengthy  paragraph.  Sometimes  he  plays 
with  the  facts  of  history  with  all  the  petty  dexterity  of  a  con- 
jurer, bringing  them  together  from  remote  epochs  for  the  sake 
of  a  little  flash,  a  conceit,  a  contrast,  as  if  the  cloud-compelling 
Jove  were  to  bring  up  his  clouds  from  the  north  to  the  south 
merely  to  produce  a  faint  electric  spark.  This  man,  as  coarse 
as  Swift,  is  as  tricksy  as  Dumas.  It  would  weary  the  most  in- 
defatigable critic  to  follow  him  through  all  his  rhetorical  of- 
fences. But  then  he  is  a  Titan.  You  see  that  oak,  —  he  split  it 
at  one  blow.  After  all  the  clang  and  discord  and  endless  fugue 
of  some  distracted  orchestra,  there  comes  a  burst  of  music 
which  reminds  you  of  a  chorus  of  Handel's. 

With  this  mention  of   the  great  Frenchman  we  may 


98  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

join   his   encomium  on   France  ("  Michelet's    History," 
September,  1842). 

Even  if  you  care  not  to  watch  the  successive  phases  which 
European  society  has  exhibited  —  if  you  have  grown  weary  of 
political  lessons,  forever  taught  and  never  learned  —  if  you  read 
history  merely  for  its  story  and  for  its  examples  of  the  general 
passions  of  mankind,  you  will  nowhere  find  a  richer  narrative 
than  in  the  annals  of  France.  Nowhere  is  the  human  heart  laid 
so  open ;  nowhere  does  it  beat  greater  strokes  ;  nowhere  is  it 
seen  in  more  violent  or  variable  action  ;  nowhere  greater  crimes 
—  greater  virtues.  France  may  not  only  be  considered  the  fit- 
test type  of  Europe  in  her  several  mutations,  but  the  truest  type 
of  our  variable  humanity  itself.  This  vivacious  sympathetic 
race,  so  passionate,  so  intelligent,  so  prompt  to  seize  whatever  is 
new,  so  capable  of  carrying  out  to  its  utmost  limits  whatever  it 
embraces,  be  it  good  or  evil,  pleasure  or  devotion,  power  or  free- 
dom, are  they  not  preeminently  man  ?  preeminently  the  selfish, 
social,  headstrong,  inconstant,  reasoning,  unreasonable  man? 
For  this  it  is,  that  albeit  we  are  English,  irreclaimably  English, 
and  could  breathe  no  air  but  what  plays  under  our  own  cloud- 
built  sky,  and  comes  to  us  mingled  with  our  own  ocean-music  — 
for  this  it  is  we  love  the  Frenchman  even  as  we  love  humanity. 
Paris  has  long  been,  what  it  still  is,  the  busiest  of  all  human 
hives  —  where  there  is  more  buzzing,  more  stinging,  and  more 
honey  made  than  in  any  other  like  receptacle  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  Nothing  so  light  as  this  people  ;  its  quick  intelligence 
does  but  mingle  and  harmonize  with  its  keen  sense  of  pleasure ; 
it  is  laughing  at  that  very  foppery  it  loves  so  well,  and  which  it 
at  once  practises  and  ridicules  with  such  inimitable  ease.  Noth- 
ing so  serious  and  resolved  as  this  same  pleasure-loving  people  ; 
the  chord  is  struck  !  and  all  Paris  rises  up  a  crowd  of  heroes  — 
if  enthusiasm,  and  courage,  and  the  self-oblivion  of  passion  be 
sufficient  of  themselves  to  constitute  heroism. 

The  article  on  "Mr.  Ruskin's  Works"  (September, 
1851)  awards  a  mixture  of  praise  and  blame,  with  a  care- 
ful discrimination  which  could  not  be  preserved  in  a  brief 
extract ;  but  we  quote  a  single  passage,  as  a  fine  instance 


THE  REVIEWER.  99 

of  analysis  of  a  complex  emotion.     He  is  discussing  the 
sense  of  beauty. 

Each  sense  —  the  touch,  the  ear,  the  smell,  the  taste  —  blend 
their  several  remembered  pleasures  with  the  object  of  vision. 
Even  taste,  we  say,  although  Mr.  Ruskin  will  scorn  the  gross  al- 
liance. And  we  would  allude  to  the  fact  to  show  the  extreme 
subtilty  of  these  mental  processes.  The  fruit  which  you  think  of 
eating  has  lost  its  beauty  from  that  moment  —  it  assumes  to 
you  a  quite  different  relation ;  but  the  reminiscence  that  there 
is  sweetness  in  the  peach  or  the  grape,  whilst  it  remains  quite 
subordinate  to  the  pleasure  derived  from  the  sense  of  sight, 
mingles  with  and  increases  that  pleasure.  While  the  cluster  of 
ripe  grapes  is  looked  at  only  for  its  beauty,  the  idea  that  they 
are  pleasant  to  the  taste  as  well  steals  in  unobserved,  and  adds 
to  the  complex  sentiment.  If  this  idea  grow  distinct  and  prom- 
inent, the  beauty  of  the  grape  is  gone  —  you  eat  it. 

A  severe  tone  is  taken  toward  Carlyle,  in  reviewing  his 
"  Cromwell  "  (April,  1847).  Carlyle  is  there  castigated  as 
vigorously  as  ever  Macaulay  handled  one  of  his  victims, 
and  the  severest  part  of  the  punishment  is  the  quotation 
of  extravagances  which  justify  the  denunciation.  What 
rouses  this  habitually  mild  judge  to  indignation  is  Car- 
lyle's  glorifying  of  the  worst  features  of  a  past  age,  while 
he  is  blind  to  all  the  good  in  the  present. 

We  were  prepared  to  see  Mr.  Carlyle,  in  his  own  sardonic 
fashion,  abet  and  encourage  the  violence  and  ferocity  of  the  Pu- 
ritans ;  his  sympathy  is  always  with  the  party  who  strikes  ;  but 
that  he  should  identify  himself  with  their  mumming  thoughts, 
their  "  plentiful  reasons,"  their  gloomiest  superstitions,  was  what 
no  one  would  have  anticipated.  .  .  .  The  same  clear-sighted  au- 
thor, who  sees  the  Christian  doctrine  so  beautifully  and  preemi- 
nently developed  in  the  Ironsides  of  Cromwell,  in  the  troopers 
of  Lambert  and  Harrison,  sacking,  pillaging,  slaughtering,  and 
in  all  that  tribe  of  men  who  ever  shed  blood  the  readier  after 
prayer -time  —  men  who  had  dropped  from  their  memory 
Christ's  own  preaching,  to  fill  their  mouths  with  the  cursing 
which  the  Hebrew  prophets  had  been  permitted,  under  apastdis- 


100  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

pensation,  to  denounce  against  the  enemies  of  Judea,  who  had 
constructed  their  theology  out  of  the  darkest  parts  of  the  New 
and  the  most  fearful  portions  of  the  Old  Testament;  —  this 
same  author,  opening  his  eyes  and  ears  upon  his  own  day  and 
generation,  finds  that  Christianity  has  died  out  of  all  hearts, 
and  its  phraseology,  as  he  expresses  himself  elsewhere,  "  become 
mournful  to  him  when  spouted  as  frothy  cant  from  Exeter 
Hall."  .  .  .  He  sees  nothing  good,  or  generous,  or  high- 
minded,  in  any  portion  of  the  world  in  which  he  lives ;  he  re- 
serves his  sympathies  for  the  past,  —  for  the  men  of  buckram 
and  broadsword,  who,  on  a  question  of  church  government, 
were  always  ready  "  to  hew  Agag  to  pieces,"  let  Agag  stand  for 
who  or  what  number  it  might. 

If  we  possessed  a  review  of  "  Sartor  Resartus  "  by  this 
same  hand,  we  should  find  a  very  different  keynote. 
That  book  was  long  a  constant  companion  with  him.  In 
allusion  partly  to  it,  he  says  in  writing  on  "  Past  and 
Present,"  "  We  regard  the  chief  value  of  Mr.  Carlyle's 
writings  to  consist  in  the  tone  of  mind  which  the  individ- 
ual reader  acquires  from  their  perusal :  manly,  energetic, 
enduring,  with  high  resolves  and  self -forgetting  effort." 

This  same  article  on  Cromwell,  passing  from  the  his- 
torian to  his  subject,  gives  a  masterly  sketch  of  the  Puri- 
tan leader,  from  which  we  select  one  or  two  traits  :  — 

It  is  the  glaring  defect  in  Cromwell  —  a  defect  which  he  had 
in  common  with  many  others  of  his  time  —  that  he  threw  him- 
self into  a  revolution  having  for  its  first  object  to  remodel  the 
civil  government,  animated  only  with  the  passions  of  the  collat- 
eral controversy  upon  ecclesiastical  government.  He  fought  the 
battle  which  was  to  destroy  the  monarchy  without  any  fixed 
idea  or  desire  for  the  republican  government  which  must  be  its 
substitute.  This  was  not  the  subject  that  had  engaged  his 
thoughts  or  inflamed  his  ardour.  When,  therefore,  the  royalists 
had  been  conquered,  it  is  not  at  all  surprising  that  he  should 
have  seen  nothing  but  the  difficulties  in  the  way  of  forming  a 
republic.  At  this  point  of  his  history  some  excuse  for  him  may 
be  drawn  from  the  very  defect  we  are  noticing.  His  mind  had 


THE  REVIEWER.  101 

dwelt  on  no  theory  of  civil  government  —  to  the  cause  of  the 
commonwealth  his  heart  had  never  been  pledged  —  and  we  can 
hardly  call  him,  with  justice,  as  Godwin  does,  a  traitor  to  the 
republic.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  what  a  gap,  what  a  void,  does 
this  disclose  in  the  mind  of  our  hero !  What  should  we  say  of 
one  who  had  plunged  heart  and  soul  into  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, conducted  only  by  his  rage  against  the  Roman  Catholic 
hierarchy  ?  Such  a  one,  had  he  risen  to  take  a  leading  part  in 
that  drama,  might  have  acted  with  greater  wisdom  and  modera- 
tion than  ardent  and  patriotic  men ;  the  very  absence  of  any  po- 
litical opinion  or  passion  might  have  enabled  him  to  see  more 
clearly  than  others  the  position  which  they  all  occupied ;  but 
this  would  not  justify  or  palliate  the  original  error,  the  rash,  ex- 
clusive, self-blinding  zeal  which  had  brought  him  into  that  posi- 
tion. .  .  . 

It  is  at  this  latter  period  of  his  career  that  the  character  of 
Cromwell,  to  our  apprehension,  stands  out  to  greatest  advan- 
tage, becomes  more  grave,  and  solemn,  and  estimable.  Other 
dictators,  other  men  of  ambitious  aims  and  fortunes,  show  them- 
selves, for  the  most  part,  less  amiable,  more  tyrannous  than 
ever,  more  violent  and  selfish,  when  they  have  obtained  the  last 
reward  of  all  their  striving,  and  possessed  themselves  of  the  seat 
of  power.  It  was  otherwise  with  Cromwell.  He  became  more 
moderate,  his  views  more  expanded,  his  temper  milder  and 
more  pensive.  The  stormy  passions  of  the  civil  war  were  over- 
blown, the  intricate  and  ambiguous  passages  of  his  political 
course  had  been  left  behind  ;  and  now,  whatever  may  have  been 
the  errors  of  the  past,  and  however  his  own  ambition  or  rashness 
may  have  led  him  to  it,  he  occupied  a  position  which  he  might  say 
with  truth  he  held  for  his  country's  good.  Forsake  it  he  could 
not.  Repose  in  it  he  could  not.  A  man  of  religious  breeding, 
of  strong  conscientiousness,  though  tainted  with  superstition, 
he  could  not  but  feel  the  great  responsibility  of  that  position. 
A  vulgar  usurper  is  found  at  this  era  of  his  career  to  sink  into 
the  voluptuary,  or  else  to  vent  his  dissatisfied  humour  in  acts  of 
cruelty  and  oppression.  Cromwell  must  govern,  and  govern  to 
his  best.  The  restless  and  ardent  spirit  that  had  ever  prompted 
him  onwards  and  upwards,  and  which  had  carried  him  to  that 
high  place,  was  now  upon  the  wane.  It  had  borne  him  to  that 


102  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

giddy  pinnacle  and  threatened  to  leave  him  there.  Men  were 
now  aiming  at  his  life  ;  the  assassin  was  abroad ;  one  half  the 
world  was  execrating  him  ;  we  doubt  not  that  he  spoke  with 
sincerity  when  he  said  that  u  he  would  gladly  live  under  any 
woodside,  and  keep  a  flock  of  sheep."  He  would  gladly  lay 
down  his  burden,  but  he  cannot ;  can  lay  it  down  only  in  the 
grave.  The  sere  and  yellow  leaf  is  falling  on  the  shelterless 
head  of  the  royal  Puritan.  The  asperity  of  his  earlier  character 
is  gone,  the  acrimony  of  many  of  his  prejudices  has,  in  his  long 
and  wide  intercourse  with  mankind,  abated;  his  great  duties 
have  taught  him  moderation  of  many  kinds ;  there  remains  of 
the  fiery  sectarian,  who  so  hastily  "  turned  the  buckle  of  his 
girdle  behind  him,"  little  more  than  his  firmness  and  conscien- 
tiousness ;  his  firmness,  that,  as  he  truly  said,  "  could  be  bold 
with  men  ;  "  his  conscientiousness,  which  made  the  power  he  at- 
tained by  that  boldness  a  burden  and  a  heavy  responsibility. 

The  whole  of  this  article  suggests,  what  much  else  con- 
firms, that  our  author  was  admirably  qualified  for  an  his- 
torian. But  we  must  confine  ourselves  to  a  few  further 
citations  from  his  literary  criticisms.  Among  the  best  of 
these  is  the  one  on  Wordsworth  (March,  1841),  and  of 
this  a  single  delicate  stroke  may  be  given. 

The  passion  is,  for  the  most  part,  checked  and  controlled  by 
thought,  or  it  is  itself  wrought  out  from  meditation.  He  feels, 
he  compassionates,  he  musingly  deplores  ;  but  he  cannot  allow 
his  own  peace  of  mind  to  be  overthrown.  Let  no  one  suppose 
that  it  is  any  sign  of  real  lowliness  or  humility  of  mind,  that  he 
so  often  selects  a  lowly  subject  for  his  sympathy.  This  is  rather 
the  sign  of  a  lofty  bearing,  of  an  intellectual  reserve.  He  chooses 
a  subject  he  can  look  down  upon,  that  so  calm  thoughts  may 
mingle  with  his  feelings.  He  cannot  let  his  sympathy  go  forth 
upon  a  level  line  to  an  intellectual  equal ;  this  would  too  much 
implicate  him  in  the  passions  of  another  ;  it  would  carry  him 
from  himself.  He  cannot  be  so  compromised.  He  cannot 
quit  his  free,  solitary,  reflective  station.  He  watches  pensively 
over  the  scene  of  human  woe ;  I  cannot  think  that  he  ever 
drops  a  tear.  He  gives  the  meed  of  approbation  to  the  warrior 


THE  REVIEWER.  103 

and  the  valiant  hero  ;  but  he  partakes  not  his  ardour  even  for  a 
moment.  He  casts  but  a  hasty  glance  at  the  lover's  happiness  ; 
it  is  too  turbulent,  he  fears  it,  he  turns  aside. 

The  most  daring  and  original  of  American  thinkers  re- 
ceived hardly  anywhere  a  warmer  welcome  than  from  the 
magazine  supposed  to  embody  the  stiffest  Scotch  Toryism. 
The  greeting  of  "  Blackwood  "  to  Emerson  (December, 
1847)  was  from  the  pen  of  William  Smith.  It  need  not 
be  said  that  the  praise  is  discriminating,  and  that  there 
is  demur  at  the  element  of  mysticism,  but  the  prevailing 
tone  is  of  cordial  applause.  The  aversion  to  the  idealist 
philosophy  is  overborne  by  admiration  of  the  man. 

Yet,  up  to  this  moment,  America  has  not  given  to  the  world 
anything  which,  in  point  of  original  genius,  is  comparable  to  his 
writings.  That  she  has  a  thousand  minds  better  built  up,  whose 
more  equal  culture  and  whose  more  sober  opinions  one  might 
prefer  to  have,  —  this  is  not  the  question ;  but  in  that  highest 
department  of  reflective  genius,  where  the  power  is  given  to  im- 
part new  insights  into  truth,  or  make  old  truths  look  new,  he 
stands  hitherto  unrivalled  in  his  country ;  he  has  no  equal  and 
no  second. 

Very  popular  he  perhaps  never  may  become  ;  but  we  figure 
to  ourselves  that,  a  century  hence,  he  will  be  recognized  as  one 
of  those  old  favorite  writers  whom  the  more  thoughtful  spirits 
read,  not  so  much  as  teachers,  but  as  noble-minded  companions 
and  friends,  whose  aberrations  have  been  long  ago  conceded 
and  forgiven.  Men  will  read  him  then,  not  for  his  philosophy, 
—  they  will  not  care  two  straws  for  his  idealism  or  his  panthe- 
ism :  they  will  know  that  they  are  there,  and  there  they  will 
leave  them,  — but  they  will  read  him  for  those  genuine  confes- 
sions of  one  spirit  to  another  that  are  often  breathed  in  his 
writings  ;  for  those  lofty  sentiments  to  which  all  hearts  re- 
spond ;  for  those  truths  which  make  their  way  through  all 
systems,  and  in  all  ages. 

The  literary  topic  to  which  our  author  reverts  most 
often  and  most  lovingly  is  the  writings  of  Shakespeare. 


104  WILLIAM   SMITH. 

From  articles  devoted  to  special  phases  of  Shakespeare, 
and  from  allusions  in  other  connections,  there  might  be 
gathered  a  choice  volume  of  Shakespearean  criticism.  It 
is  a  criticism  equally  sympathetic  and  fearless.  In  his 
notice  of  Victor  Hugo's  Shakespeare  (August,  1864)  he 
supports  a  view  quite  at  variance  with  the  still  prevalent 
tendency  to  attribute  to  Shakespeare  an  infallibility  like 
that  ascribed  to  the  Bible. 

Some  of  our  most  distinguished  critics  proceed  on  the  suppo- 
sition that  Shakespeare,  before  writing  his  dialogue,  formed  for 
himself  a  complete  conception  of  the  character  he  was  about  to 
portray.  It  is  this  conception  the  critic  has  to  seize  upon  and 
secure.  Now  we  venture  to  assert  that  it  is  very  seldom  that 
any  dramatist  has  proceeded  in  this  manner.  We  feel  per- 
suaded that  Shakespeare  did  not.  He  took  some  well  known 
story,  and  the  inevitable  passions  of  the  agents  in  it,  and  by 
developing  these  a  character  was  necessarily  developed  also. 
But  the  character  was  the  result  of  the  story  and  the  passion ; 
it  was  no  separate  preconception.  The  story  was  not  invented 
to  display  the  character,  but  the  story  was  there,  and  the  char- 
acter grew  out  of  it,  and  was  made  to  accommodate  itself  to  all 
its  turns  and  windings.  Shakespeare  never  seems  to  have  given 
himself  the  trouble  to  think  whether  the  men  and  women  he 
brought  upon  the  stage,  and  to  whom  he  gave  his  marvellous 
dialogue,'  or  whether  any  human  beings  whatever,  could  have 
acted  in  the  manner  which  his  story  says  they  did.  ...  It 
sometimes  happens  that  Shakespeare,  by  throwing  the  wealth 
of  his  own  highly  reflective  mind  on  the  characters  he  portrays, 
produces  an  incongruity  between  them  and  the  actions  which, 
according  to  the  story,  he  has  to  ascribe  to  them.  .  .  .  [After 
instancing  Lear  and  Othello.]  Was  Macbeth  a  cruel  man  ? 
Was  he  a  tyrant  by  temperament?  Was  he  superstitious? 
Had  he  that  overweening  pride  which,  in  common  parlance,  is 
dignified  with  the  name  of  ambition  ?  How  far  was  he  led  to 
the  murder  of  Duncan  by  the  prophecy  of  the  witches  ?  how 
far  by  the  incentives  of  his  diabolical  wife  ?  Questions  like 
these  our  analytic  school  of  critics  agitate,  and  on  the  solution  of 


THE  REVIEWER.  105 

such  questions  they  bring  to  bear  those  noble  and  pathetic 
speeches  which,  especially  towards  the  close  of  the  drama, 
Shakespeare  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Macbeth.  But  the  almost 
tender  eloquence  which  the  poet  takes  this  opportunity  to  utter, 
and  the  murder  which  only  a  savage  could  commit,  are  simply 
incompatible.  Shift  your  point  of  view  how  you  will,  you  can 
never  get  these  in  the  same  line  of  vision,  so  as  to  harmonize 
them  together.  The  Macbeth  of  the  story  and  the  Macbeth 
who  utters  Shakespeare's  tJwughts  are  not  to  be  reconciled. 
But  the  pleasure  of  the  reader  is,  after  all,  very  little  disturbed 
by  this  incongruity,  because  in  fact,  it  is  the  Macbeth  who 
spealcs  and  thinks  who  absorbs  our  attention,  and  this  to  such  a 
degree  that  it  is  the  murderer,  and  not  the  sons  of  the  murdered 
Duncan,  to  whom  we  give  our  sympathies  :  no  one  has  a  horror 
of  Macbeth.  We  admit  the  justice  of  his  fate,  but  regret  it  at 
the  same  time. 

There  follows  a  striking  exposition  of  Hamlet,  in  this 
view,  that  from  the  elements  of  a  traditional  story, 
blended  with  the  free  play  of  his  own  imagination, 
Shakespeare  has  drawn  a  character  in  which  it  is  vain  to 
seek  a  wholly  consistent  individuality. 

Among  these  articles  are  scattered  glimpses  of  self- 
revelation;  as  in  this  passage:  "He  well  knew  how 
essential  was  solitude  to  the  highest  gratification  which 
either  nature  or  art  afford.  It  is  but  a  secondary  or  de- 
clining excitement  that  we  feel  when  we  are  restless  to 
communicate  it  to  another.  The  heart  is  but  half  full  of 
its  object,  that,  to  complete  its  pleasure,  craves  sym- 
pathy." We  come  upon  such  delicate  touches  as  this  : 
"  Her  face  was  a  melody  which  you  cannot  quarrel  with 
for  being  sad  —  which  you  could  not  desire  to  be  other- 
wise than  sad  —  whose  very  charm  is  that  it  has  made 
the  tone  of  sorrow  ineffably  sweet." 

In  dipping  as  it  were  a  cupful  out  of  the  brimming 
cistern  which  these  collected  reviews  offer,  there  rises  a 
sense  of  a  real  grievance  suffered  by  the  world  at  the 
hands  of  this  gentlest  of  men.  It  is  hard  to  forgive  him 


106  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

for  balking  Mr.  Blackwood's  plan  of  publishing  a  volume 
of  selections.  Scattered  through  the  endless  numbers  of 
the  magazine,  his  articles  are  to  the  readers  of  the  present 
day  like  carbon  dispersed  through  a  coal-bed ;  condensed 
and  crystallized,  they  would  have  yielded  a  diamond. 
This  is  the  list  of  his  contributions :  — 

1839.  August,         A  Prosing  upon  Poetry. 

October,        On  the  Feigned  Madness  of  Hamlet. 

1840.  January,       Hints  on  History.     Part  1. 
February,        "       "         "  Part  2. 
June,            Wild  Oats  —  A  New  Species. 
September,  The  Boundary  Question. 
December,   On  Population  (a  Review  of  Alison). 

1841.  March,          Wordsworth. 

1842.  May,  Gabrielle  de  BeUe  Isle. 
June,             Angelo. 
September,  Dennis  on  Shakespeare. 

History  of  France  (Review  of  Michelet).   Part  1. 
October,  "        "         "  "         «  «          Part  2. 

1843.  March,          Comte. 

May,  Dumas  on  Italy. 

"  Leap  Year  :  A  Tale. 

July,  Past  and  Present,  by  Carlyle. 

October,  Mill's  Logic. 

1844.  June,  The  Diligence  :  A  Leaf  from  a  Journal. 
August,  Some  Remarks  on  Schiller's  Maid  of  Orleans. 

"  M.  Girardin. 

September,  M.  Louis  Blanc. 
November,  French  Socialists. 

1845.  February,     The  Superfluities  of  Life. 

April,  Vestiges  of  the  Natural  History  of  Creation. 

June,  The  Novel  and  the  Drama. 

July,  Torquato  Tasso  (Goethe's). 

August,  On  Punishments. 
September,  Warren's  Law  Studies. 

October,  Manner  and  Matter  :  A  Tale. 

November,  Hakem  the  Slave  :  A  Tale. 

December,  The  Mountain  and  the  Cloud. 

1846.  December,  Mildred  :  A  Tale.     Part  1. 

1847.  January,  "  «      "       Part  2. 
February,          "             «'      "       Part  3. 


THE   REVIEWER.  107 

1847.  April,  Cromwell. 

May,  The  Visible  and  Tangible  :  A  Metaphysical  Frag- 
ment. 

July,  Sir  H.  Nicolas's  History  of  the  Navy. 

August,  Grote's  History  of  Greece. 

September,  Le  Premier  Pas. 

"  Byways  of  History. 

"  Giacomo  de  Valencia  ;  or,  the  Student  of  Bologna. 

October,  Works  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen. 

November,  The  American  Library. 

December,  Emerson. 

1848.  June,  Guesses  at  Truth. 

October,  J.  S.  Mill's  Political  Economy. 

December,  Mrs.  Hemans. 

1849.  March,  M.  Prudhon,  Contradictions  Economiques. 
April,  Tennyson's  Poems. 

May,  Colonisation  ;  Mr.  Wakefleld's  Theory. 

August,  Charles  Lamb. 

October,  Physical  Geography  (Mrs.  Somerville). 

1850.  January,  Howard. 
February,  Goldsmith.     Part  1. 
March,  "  Part  2. 

"  A  Late  Case  of  Court-Martial. 

April,  Festus. 
September,  The  Night  Side  of  Nature. 

1851.  March,  Southey.     Part  1. 
April,  "  Part  2. 
May,  Some  American  Poets. 
August,  Voltaire  in  the  Crystal  Palace. 
September,  Mr.  Ruskin's  Works. 
October,  The  Essays  of  Mr.  Helps. 
November,  The  Dramas  of  Henry  Taylor. 

1852.  March,  Miss  Mitford's  Recollections. 
May,  Life  of  Niebuhr. 
September,  Jeffrey.     Part  1. 

October,  "          Part  2. 

"  Corneille  and  Shakespeare. 

"  Review  of  Sortain's  Count  Arenberg. 

"  Dr.  Chalmers  as  Political  Economist. 

1854.  January,  Lander's  Last  Fruit  off  an  Old  Tree. 

February,  Gray's  Letters. 

March,  The  Epidemics  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

March,  Jerome  Cardan. 


108  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

1855.  March,  Life  of  Lord  Metcalfe. 

April,  Sir  Benjamin  Brodie's  Psychological  Inquiries. 

August,  Warren's  Blackstone. 

1856.  March,  LiddelPs  History  of  Rome. 
April,  Prescott's  Philip  the  Second. 

1858.  January,  Debit  and  Credit. 
March,  Sullivan  on  Cumberland. 
August,  Gladstone's  Homer. 

"  White's  Eighteen  Christian  Centuries. 

November,  Buckle's  History  of  Civilisation. 

1859.  July,  Dr.  Mansel's  Bampton  Lectures. 
August,  Leaders  of  the  Reformation. 
October,  Sir  William  Hamilton. 

November,  Vaughan's  Revolutions  in  English  History.  Vol.  i. 

December,  Motley's  Dutch  Republic. 

1860.  August,  Dr.  Hanna's  Wy cliff e  and  the  Huguenots. 
October,  Charles  Hemans  on  Papal  Government. 

1861.  February,  Carthage  and  its  Remains. 

May,  Motley's  History  of  the  Netherlands. 

June,  Miss  Bremer  in  Switzerland  and  Italy. 

August,  Vaughan's  Revolutions  in  English  History.  Vol.  ii. 

November,  M.  Ernest  Renan. 

1862.  May,  Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle. 

1863.  January,  T.  Trollope's  Italian  Novels. 
April,  Spedding's  Life  of  Bacon. 
May,  Wilson's  Prehistoric  Man. 
September,  Jean  Paul  Richter. 
October,  Sheridan  Knowles. 
December,  Tyndall  on  Heat. 

1864.  February,  Kirk's  Charles  the  Bold. 
April,  Mr.  Knight's  Reminiscences. 
August,  Mr.  Lewes's  Aristotle. 

"  Victor  Hugo's  Shakespeare. 

October,  Max  Miiller's  Lectures   on  the  Science  of  Lan- 
guage.     2d  Series. 

1865.  March,  William  Blake. 

1866.  May,  J.  S.  Mill  on  Sir  William  Hamilton. 

"  Scraps  of  Verse  from  a  Tourist's  Journal. 

June,  Life  of  Steele. 

1867.  February,  Dallas's  Gay  Science. 
March,  Ferrier. 

April,  Hemans's  Ancient  Christianity. 

June,  The  Duke  of  Argyll's  Reign  of  Law. 


THE  REVIEWER.  109 

1867.  September,  La  Physique  Moderne  (Saigey). 

1868.  July,  Motley's  History  of  the  Netherlands. 
November,  Lewes's  History  of  Philosophy. 
December,   Dean  Milmau. 

1870.  July,  Lecky's  History  of  Morals. 
November,   Professor  Porter  on  the  Human  Intellect 

1871.  July,  The  Coming  Race. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


Six  years  had  passed  since  the  unsuccessful  publica- 
tion of  "  Guidone  "  and  "  Solitude,"  when  their  author,  in 
1842,  gave  to  the  world  another  drama,  "  Athelwold." 
There  were  some  who  in  private  praised  it  highly.  Mill 
wrote  to  the  author  quoting  the  good  opinion  of  his  friend 
Mrs.  Taylor,  and  Serjeant  Talfourd  expressed  in  a  Jetter 
his  warm  admiration.  The  next  spring,  Macready  brought 
it  out  on  the  stage,  himself  taking  the  part  of  Athel- 
wold,  while  Miss  Helen  Faueit  impersonated  the  heroine. 
On  its  first  night,  the  play  met  with  decided  success,  and 
the  author  was  enthusiastically  called  for.  We  are  not 
told  that  he  responded  —  it  is  hardly  possible  to  imagine 
him  coming  before  the  foot-lights,  and  bowing  in  response 
to  the  plaudits  of  the  house.  But  for  an  hour  he  must 
have  tasted  in  its  full  flavor  the  highest  reward  that  ex- 
ternal success  can  bestow  on  the  author.  The  other  forms 
of  literary  fame  seem  poor  and  cold  beside  the  satisfaction 
of  the  dramatist  in  seeing  his  creations  worthily  bodied 
forth  and  striking  home  to  a  thousand  hearts  whose  an- 
swering emotion  speaks  in  face  and  voice.  All  we  are 
told  of  the  author's  feelings  is  that  he  seemed  most  im- 
pressed by  Maeready's  exquisite  rendering  of  the  charac- 
ter of  Athelwold.  The  Memoir  adds  that  Macready  pro- 
nounced ono  particular  moment  in  Miss  Faucit's  acting  of 
Elfrida,  "  the  best  thing  she  ever  did." 

So  for  one  instant  the  drama  stood  on  the  shining  height 
of  popularity.  Then  it  sank  into  oblivion.  Its  produc- 
tion on  the  stage  occurred  just  at  the  end  of  the  theatrical 


"ATHELWOLD." 


Ill 


season,  and  the  next  year  it  was  not  reproduced.  The 
literary  critics  seem  to  have  paid  it  no  attention.  Eight 
years  afterward,  a  reviewer  in  "  Black  wood  "  disentombed 
from  a  dusty  pile  of  books  the  little  volume  containing 
"  Athelwold  "  and  its  companions,  and  gave  to  it  enthusias- 
tic praise.  But  it  won  no  general  recognition,  and  prob- 
ably very  few  readers  are  acquainted  with  it.  There  is  no 
trace  of  any  effect  of  this  failure  upon  the  author's  mind. 
The  youth  who  in  bitterness  of  spirit  made  a  literal  grave 
for  his  first  unsuccessful  book  had  become  the  mature  and 
disciplined  man,  not  to  be  elated  by  success  nor  cast  down 
by  failure.  And  in  truth  the  mind  that  could  create 
"  Athelwold  "  might  well  be  so  strong  in  its  own  resources 
as  not  to  depend  on  popularity. 

The  play  is  based  upon  the  story  of  King  Edgar, 
Athelwold,  and  Elfrida,  as  Hume  relates  it.  The  action 
is  vigorous,  and  the  development  of  the  story  hurries 
the  reader  with  breathless  interest  to  the  tragic  close. 
The  wealth  of  philosophic  thought  and  of  poetic  imagery 
does  not  clog  the  movement  of  the  plot.  The  graver  scenes 
are  diversified  with  lighter  action,  full  of  spirit  and  grace. 
The  interest  centres  in  the  characters  of  Athelwold,  Dun- 
stan,  and  Elfrida.  At  the  opening,  Edgar  is  amusing  him- 
self with  the  nun  Edith,  whom  he  has  carried  off  from  her 
convent.  Dunstan  comes  upon  him  with  stern  rebuke, 
but  imposes  only  a  trivial  penance.  He  treats  Edith's 
pitiful  plea  for  compassion  with  the  harshest  scorn.  Then 
Edgar  confides  to  him  that  he  is  about  to  dispatch  his 
trusted  soldier  and  servant  Athelwold  on  a  secret  errand, 
to  see  whether  a  certain  noble  lady,  Elfrida,  kept  by  her 
father  in  seclusion,  is  worthy  of  her  reputation  for  won- 
derful beauty ;  with  the  purpose,  if  Athelwold  brings  a 
favorable  report,  to  make  her  his  queen.  Then  follows  a 
dialogue  between  Dunstan  and  Athelwold,  the  church- 
man's purpose  being  revealed  in  his  previous  soliloquy. 


112  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

The  only  man  who  scans  and  penetrates 
My  measures  and  my  motives,  he  is  now 
The  favoured  noble  of  our  fickle  king  ; 
Loved  by  the  people  ;  even  by  the  court, 
The  envious  court,  esteemed  and  idolized. 
Now  Athelwold,  I  win  thee  for  my  friend, 
Or,  as  my  dangerous  rival,  tread  thee  down  ! 
The  cause  exacts  it,  and  I  may  not  shrink, 
That  cause  which  makes  of  all  this  mortal  world 
But  one  vast  engine  for  its  purposes, 
And  still  works  on,  and  pauses  not,  nor  spares, 
Though  every  strained  and  shrieking  cable  there 
Is  spun  of  human  fibre.  —  Here  he  comes.  — 

Athelwold  arraigns  him  for  artfulness  and  cruelty ;  for 
his  leniency  with  the  weak  and  vicious  Edgar,  and  his 
previous  severity  to  the  innocent  Edwin  for  a  virtuous 
marriage.  Dunstan  defends  himself  as  having  acted 
solely  in  the  interest  of  the  Church,  in  humoring  the 
weak  monarch  and  crushing  the  rebellious  one. 

Athelwold.  Thus  has  it  ever  been  !     The  cruel  zealot 
First  frames  a  duty  Heaven  never  meant, 
And  in  fulfilment  of  it  acts  such  crimes 
As  wondering  Hell  made  no  provision  for. 
Dominion  !  still  dominion  ! 
Cannot  thy  church  instruct,  control,  and  guide, 
Sharing  a  sway  with  all  good  influences, 
But  it  alone  must  rule  the  human  mind, 
And  paralyze  to  rule  —  making  a  crime 
Of  the  bare  judgment,  till  our  faith  is  fear, 
And  in  the  very  best  the  callous  thought 
Foregoes,  forgets,  the  finer  sense  of  truth  ? 
—  The  generous  hope  which  bears  us  to  the  skies  — 
Oh,  make  not  this  our  bondage  ! 

Dunstan.  Mark  you  not, 

My  Athelwold,  how  in  the  faith  of  all 
Each  child  of  frailty,  each  poor  worldling,  finds 
The  path  he  treads  to  Heaven  ?     On  the  broad  base, 
By  ages  strengthened,  of  a  nation's  creed, 
As  on  some  mole  immense  and  palpable, 
Wrought  o'er  the  abyss,  fast  to  the  doors  of  Heaven, 
Each  solitary  foot  treads  firm  ;  the  flock 


"ATHELWOLD."  113 

Of  men  pass  on  —  they  pause  —  they  fail  —  they  fall  — 

But  on  the  road  itself,  and  where  it  leads, 

Or  who  contrived,  they  waste  no  bootless  care, 

No  sad,  unequal  scrutiny.     Therefore 

We  punish  error  as  we  punish  crime, 

Lest  by  the  perverse  freedom  of  a  few 

Truth  lose  her  hold  on  the  gross,  giddy  world. 

And  —  hear  me  out  with  patience,  my  good  lord  — 

And  fortunate,  I  deem,  are  men  thus  ruled, 

Who  reason  not,  but  in  belief  obey, 

Or  with  the  reason  happily  confound 

A  foregone  sense  of  duty  ;  fortunate, 

In  my  esteem,  that  subject-multitude 

The  monarch- priest,  by  his  bold  government, 

Protects  from  worst  of  anarchies,  from  doubt, 

And  its  undying  fear  :  their  creed  lives  in  them 

Like  blood  within  their  veins,  and  glows  or  thrills, 

As  questionless.     Know  this  —  that  he  who  towers 

Above  his  kind,  nor  can  be  taught  of  them, 

Who  trusts  his  faith  to  solitary  thought, 

Who  strains  his  ear  for  accents  from  the  skies, 

Or  tasks  the  wavering  oracle  within, 

Shall  feed  on  heavenly  whispers,  few  and  faint, 

And  dying  oft  to  stillness  terrible  ! 

Dunstan  then  goes  on  to  appeal  to  Athelwold  to  ally 
himself  with  the  power  of  the  Church  ;  but  is  unsuccessful. 
Athelwold,  left  to  himself,  contrasts  his  own  purpose  and 
attitude  with  Dunstan's. 

This  Dunstan  deals 
In  a  dissembling  policy,  in  arts 
Tortuous  and  little  for  a  noble  mind  ; 
And  yet  in  him  there  is  no  littleness, 
For  all  is  done  as  task-work,  wise  or  not, 
For  greatest  purposes.     This  't  is  to  be 
One  of  your  world-controllers.     I  'd  not  stoop 
From  my  own  pride  of  virtue  and  of  truth 
To  rule  the  planet. 

He  visits  Olgar,  Elfrida's  father,  concealing  his  errand. 
In  an  interview  between  Elfrida  and  her  confidante  Gil- 
bertha,  she  is  shown  divided  between  attraction  toward 
the  stranger  knight,  and  a  longing  for  wider  conquests. 


114  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

Gilbertha.  Oh,  't  is  more 

Than  woman  wants  to  win  one  noble  heart, 
And  all  beyond  is  danger.     I  should  tremble 
To  have  the  power  that  lies  in  thy  sweet  face 
To  dizzy  human  brains  —  my  own  might  turn. 

Elfrida.  Now  would  that  I  were  but  in  Edgar's  court 
To  play  this  fearful  part  among  his  thanes  ! 
How  glorious  in  some  royal  festival 
To  feel  I  was  the  queen  of  it  ! 

Gil.  Fie  !  fie  ! 

When  all  this  while  thou  hast  this  wandering  knight, 
Like  a  stray  deer,  within  the  mortal  toils  ! 
Say,  could  the  ransacked  court  supply  a  match 
Nobler  than  Athelwold  ? 

Elf.  Oh,  he 's  an  emperor, 

A  very  demi-god  !     Let  me  say  it  — 
'T  is  only  to  thy  ear  —  say  it  aloud  — 
Though  burning  blushes  rush,  against  my  will, 
To  my  hot  cheek  —  that  I  do  love  this  thane  ! 
Mark,  my  Gilbertha,  what  a  brow  he  has  ! 
How  proud  !  how  thoughtful !     Peace  and  war  at  once 
With  all  their  several  virtues,  rally  there. 
Sometimes  his  full  black  eye,  taking  no  note 
Of  present  object,  with  its  thought  dilates, 
And  seems  to  drink  in  knowledge  from  the  air  ; 
Anon  it  flashes  like  an  energy, 
That  seems  to  scorn  dependence  for  the  deed 
Even  on  his  noble  arm.     Oh,  be  sure 
His  is  a  spirit  that  profoundly  thinks, 
And  can  as  boldly  dare  ! 

Gil.  Why  then  athirst 

For  wider  conquests,  lady  ?     Why  just  now 
So  restless  for  the  court  ? 

Elf.  I  'd  have,  my  girl, 

Whole  troops  of  lovers  and  of  prostrate  knights, 
That  I  might  sacrifice  them  all  to  him. 
I  hate  to  be  thus  caught,  like  a  tame  thing, 
Cooped  in  this  place.     He  '11  think  me  nothing  worth, 
Finding  me  here  alone,  unsought,  unprized, 
So  cheap  a  victory.  —  But  out  alas  ! 
We  know  not  all  this  while  if  the  thane  cares 
To  make  the  conquest  we  are  grudging  him. 


"ATHELWOLD."  115 

Athelwold,  meanwhile,  finds  himself  perilously  fasci- 
nated by  Elfrida's  beauty. 

If  on  the  eye  the  light  of  beauty  falls, 

The  eye  must  see  ;  if  on  the  ear  there  steals 

Soft  speech  of  woman,  the  unsheltered  nerve 

Cannot  refuse  the  melody  ;  if  thought 

Of  that  embrace  which  blissful  lovers  win 

Enters  the  heart,  I  cannot  make  it  stone, 

And  it  must  fill  with  the  fast  rising  tide 

Of  tremulous  desire  —  I  cannot  help 

Its  pausing  pulse  or  the  faint  breath  it  draws  ; 

But  whilst  I  feel,  I  yield  not.     Love  with  me 

Is  but  a  pain,  an  exquisite  endurance, 

Where  reason  listening  to  the  throbbing  heart, 

And  hanging  o'er  its  sorrow,  gazes  down 

Like  sage  physician  on  the  sick  man's  couch. 

I  taste  love's  sweetness  but  in  love's  despair. 

—  A  bride  —  a  beautiful  and  loving  wife  — 
Grant  it  a  good  —  the  chief est  good  —  the  sole 
Notorious  happiness  for  which  we  live  — 
Why,  in  the  name  of  reason,  why  alone 

This  woman's  beauty  ?     Why  her  love  alone  ? 
Could  sweet  affection  from  no  eyes  but  hers 
Look  out  upon  me  ?  could  no  hand  but  hers 
Give  that  soft  pressure  felt  upon  the  heart  ? 
Are  there  no  smiles,  no  beauty,  none  but  hers 
In  this  wide  world  ?     Is  all  that 's  dear  in  woman 
Summed  in  Elfrida,  that  I  must  pursue 
Her  only  at  the  hazard  of  my  life, 
And  certain  loss  of  honour  ?    Gracious  Heaven  ! 
This  madness  —  even  as  I  drag  it  forth 
For  utter  scorn  and  mockery  —  lo,  my  heart 
Claims  as  her  own  !  —  I  'm  blotted  from  the  list 
Of  reasonable  beings  !  —  lost  !  lost  !  lost  ! 

—  But  one  resolve  —  but  one  —  the  spell  were  broke  ! 
My  horse  !  my  horse  !  —  with  spurs  into  his  flanks 

I  '11  ride  to  Edgar  —  tell  the  blazing  truth 
As  far  as  tongue  can  speak  it,  and  then  fly 
Forever  these  deserted  shores.  —  Soft,  she  comes. 

He  discerns  in  Elfrida's  bearing  that  he  might  win  her 


lit)  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

love,  but  masters  himself,  and  is  hastily  departing  when 
he  meets  Olgar,  who  frankly  offers  him  his  daughter's 
hand  and  fortune.  For  answer  he  tells  him  that  she  is 
destined  for  the  king. 

Olgar.  What  say  you  ?     What  ! 

My  daughter  wed  this  royal  libertine  ? 
I  'd  rather  give  her  to  the  basest  hind 
That  tills  my  land.     Hold,  Athelwold  ! 
If  I  have  been  a  courteous  host  to  thee  — 
If  thou  hast  feeling  for  a  father's  love  — 
Name  not  to  Edgar  that  I  have  a  daughter 
Who  is,  I  know  it,  passing  beautiful. 
Do  you  esteem  Elfrida,  there  she  is, 
With  half  a  province  for  her  dowry  —  take  her, 
You  cannot  take  more  gladly  than  I  give  — 
But  if  you  heed  her  not,  oh,  pray  forget 
You  ever  saw  my  child  !     Play  not  the  spy 
To  point  that  treasure  to  lascivious  theft 
Which  to  your  honorable  custody 
Has  been  with  friendly  confidence  proposed. 

Athelwold.  She  is  mine,  Olgar !  mine  !     Were  all  the  kings 
On  earth  my  rivals,  she  is  mine  ! 

He  returns  to  the  court,  and  tells  the  king  that  El- 
frida's  beauty  has  been  overpraised,  but  that  for  himself 
she  is  by  birth  and  fortune  a  suitable  match ;  and  the 
king  unsuspectingly  relinquishes  her  to  him.  Dunstan 
learns  the  truth,  and  arranges  for  its  disclosure  to  the 
king.  He  then  retires  to  a  hermit's  retreat,  where  he  is 
beset  by  terrible  doubts  as  to  the  very  foundations  of  his 
faith. 

Dunstan  (alone.}  I  stand  on  the  bare  earth,  beneath  this  vault, 
Alone  with  God  and  nature.     Nature,  yes, 
But  where  the  God  ?    Oh,  terrible 
Is  this  unseen  Omnipotence  !     Come  back  ! 
Ye  shapes  that  sat  with  me  erewhile,  coine  back  ! 
Come  back,  ye  devils  !  for  your  hostile  rage 
Were  comfort  in  this  blank  immensity 
That  spreads  around  me,  wider,  wider  spreads,  — 
One  silent,  void,  and  infinite  abyss, 


"ATHELWOLD."  117 

O'ershadowed  only  with  a  fear, 

That  darkens  darkness,  of  an  unknown  Power, 

But  where  no  power  is  seen.  [Kneels  and  then  rises  again. 

In  vain  I  kneel, 

I  cannot  shape  a  presence  for  my  prayers, 
All  human  thought  dies  out  in  the  attempt, 
And  reason  is  a  chaos.     God,  where  art  thou  ? 
I  call  for  thee,  they  give  me  but  a  world, 
Thy  mechanism  ;  I  call  aloud  for  thee, 
My  father,  friend,  sustainer,  teacher,  judge, 
They  give  me  world  on  world,  planet  on  planet,  — 
Take  them  away  !     They  hut  encumber  heaven  — 
I  cannot  see  my  God  !  —  Why  should  I  pray  ? 
Now  what  is  man,  O  heaven  !  that  thou  shouldst  have 
Regard  for  him,  his  virtue,  or  his  guilt, 
His  homage,  or  his  prayers  ?     Man  tortures  man, 
Let  man  see  to  it,  punish  and  prevent  ; 
Why  else  didst  thou  bestow  his  little  share 
Of  reason  and  of  social  government  ? 
Creature  most  weak,  sad,  and  contemptible, 
The  devils  do  but  mock  thee  when  they  grin 
Their  hideous  threats.     Think'st  thou  thy  puny  life 
Can  anger  its  Creator  ?     Canst  thou  give, 
Give  or  withhold  an  honour  to  the  God 
That  made  thee,  puppet  ?    Or,  poor  jealous  fools, 
Do  ye  contest  it  as  a  point  concerns 
Your  own  high  honour  and  prerogative, 
That  He  should  plague  ye  everlastingly 
For  mutual,  mad,  and  transitory  sins  ? 
—  Not  mine  !  not  mine  !  these  thoughts,  this  blasphemy  ! 
It  is  the  whispering  demon  at  my  ear 
Pours  in  these  impious  doubts.      Oh,  dark  !  dark  !   dark  ! 
Are  all  things  in  this  world. 

From  his  solitude,  lie  flies  back  to  the  court,  where  he 
comes  upon  Edgar  and  Edith. 

Enter  DUNSTAN,  his  manner  disturbed. 
Dunstan.  Let  me  be  with  my  fellow-kind.     Your  hand. 
Ha !     'T  is  a  king's  —  give  me  a  human  hand. 

[Throws  aside  Edgar's  and  takes  the  hand  of  Edith 
Let  me  take  refuge  with  nay  kind  ! 
Thoughts  bred  in  Hell  assailed  me  ;  they  were  sent 
For  my  humiliation  —  I  am  humbled. 


118  WILLIAM   SMITH. 

Edgar.  Not  to  your  king,  it  seems.  But  perhaps  your  slight 
Of  him  is  part  of  your  devotion,  saint. 

Dun.  Edith,  you  are  in  tears.     This  fickle  king 
Has  cast  you  off  ? 

Edith.  Ask  me  not  —  let  me  go. 

Dun.  Thy  tears  confess  it.     Leave  now  this  cruel  court  ; 
I  '11  plant  thee  where  a  kindly  sisterhood 
With  care  and  tenderness  shall  heal  thy  wounds, 
And  bind  thy  broken  heart.     In  some  far  abbey, 
Beneath  another  sky,  and  if  it  please, 
Another  name,  thou  shalt  be  happy  yet. 

Edith.  The  voice  of  Dunstan,  but  how  much  unlike 
The  Dunstan  that  I  lately  spoke  withal ! 
Oh,  now  thou  mak'st  me  feel,  and  mourn  indeed, 
My  wretched  weakness. 

Dunstan.  Grieve  not  so  much  that  sin 

Hath  found  a  stealthy  passage  to  thy  heart, 
As  now  rejoice  that  penitence  hath  tracked 
Its  subtle  footsteps  there.     Sin  and  repentance  — 
These  two  give  men  religion  and  their  God, 
Their  faith,  their  hope.     It  is  not  innocence, 
It  is  not  wisdom  claims  the  skies  for  man, 
Or  wings  his  soul  to  immortality, 
'T  is  guilt  that  leads  to  the  celestial  gate, 
And  weeping  mercy  stands  to  open  it. 

Edgar.  And  whilst  you  rave,  or  sermonize  a  girl, 
Your  monarch,  in  his  palace,  may  stand  by, 
May  speak,  address  you,  insolent  proud  priest, 
And  wait  in  vain  an  answer  ! 

Dun.  lam  bent 

On  charitable  deed  —  am  occupied 
With  deep  and  serious  thought.     Go  to  thy  pander  — 
Consult  with  him  some  newer  lust  —  entrap 
Some  fresher  victim  —  for  one  sensual  hour 
Kill  all  her  days  to  come.     Such  are  thy  deeds, 
Such  are  thy  noble  thoughts.     I  cannot  gloss, 
Or  parley  with  them  now.     When  next  I  need 
The  king  I  '11  speak  with  thee.  [Going  with  Edith. 

Edgar.  And  thou,  lewd  minx, 

Wilt  thou  conspire  with  him  ?     Wilt  thou  too  brave  me 
In  my  own  palace  walls  ?     Go  with  that  priest, 
And  dearly,  bitterly,  shalt  thdu  abide  it. 

Edith.  Let  me  not  part  in  anger  with  thee,  Edgar, 


"ATHELWOLD."  119 

'Tis  I  —  I  only  —  that  am  wronged,  — 

I  only  suffer  here  —  yet  let  us  part  . 

In  sorrow,  not  in  anger. 

[Rushes  towards  him,  but  Dunstan  restrains  her. 

Dun.  Thou  'rt  his  no  more, 

He  has  repulsed  thee  —  thou  art  mine  —  I  will 
Protect  thee,  even  from  thyself,  fond  woman. 

Edgar,  Release  thy  hold  and  let  her  come  to  me, 
Or  — 

Dun.  I  attend.     What  is  this  mighty  threat 
Which  cannot  find  fit  utterance,  as  it  seems, 
Even  from  a  monarch's  threat  ?  —  Oh,  have  I  lived 
In  severe  abstinence  from  all  delights 
That  make  life  dear  to  man,  and  courted  pain 
For  the  great  liberty  she  brings,  and  now 
Is  there  a  mortal  power  shall  threaten  me  ? 
What  is  it,  Edgar  ?    Oh,  thou  dost  compete 
With  unembodied  spirit.     On  my  life 
Where  canst  thou  hang  a  threat,  or  plant  a  wound  ? 

Edgar.  I  can  complete  the  sentence  if  you  force  me. 
There  was  a  Dunstan,  abbot  of  Glastonbury, 
Was  banished  from  his  country. 

Dun.  And  he  ruled  it 

Even  from  his  exile,  and  the  man  returned 
Archbishop,  as  I  think,  of  Canterbury, 
And  ere  he  set  his  foot  upon  the  soil, 
He  had  the  power  to  set  another  king 
Than  him  who  banished  him,  upon  the  throne. 
So  runs  the  narrative.  —  O  God  of  Heaven  ! 
I  thank  thee  for  this  strife  \     Here  —  here  my  faith 
In  all  its  fulness  is  restored  to  me. 
I  am  that  Dunstan  thou  hast  given  in  charge 
To  subdue  monarchs  and  to  rule  a  people  — 
I  am  that  Dunstan  whom  in  this  vile  body 
Thou  hast  allowed  with  angels  to  commune, 
And  with  the  powers  of  Satan  to  contend  — 
I  am  that  Dunstan  still  retained  on  earth 
To  walk  so  long  with  men,  that  regal  pride, 
Assailing  thy  dear  church,  may  meet  its  check, 
And  none  be  greater  than  the  priest  of  God. 
—  Behold  I  pass  before  thee  with  my  charge, 
My  timid  charge,  nor  shalt  thou  see  her  more. 


120  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

Athelwold  has  wedded  Elfrida,  and  is  living  with  her 
in  seclusion. 

Elfrida.  And  you  can  find  content,  my  Athelwold, 
Here,  in  this  place,  with  only  your  Elfrida  ? 

Ath.  Less  than  content,  and  more  than  happiness. 
How  pass  these  hours,  no  tongue  I  think  could  tell,  — - 
The  down  upon  an  angel's  wing 
Not  fleeter,  softer,  or  more  tremulous. 

Elf.  Your  love  it  wanes  not,  though  the  first  sweet  moon 
Of  wedded  life  be  waning  fast  ? 

Ath.  Ah  no  ! 

I  have  f  oreborne  to  weigh  thy  spirit,  dear, 
Or  rob  this  period  of  its  perfect  bliss, 
By  any  dark  perspective,  but  be  sure 
'T  is  no  frail  love  could  live  in  such  a  sea 
As  in  my  bosom  is  now  running  high  ; 
Less  passion  were  despair.     Here,  on  thy  neck, 
Would  that  I  now  could  breathe  my  last,  Elfrida  ! 
I  gave  all  else  of  being  for  this  bliss  — 
It  has  been  mine  —  why  should  I  live  beyond  ? 

Elf.  You  talk  the  sweetest  wildness,  Athelwold, 
And  give  the  sweetest  kisses  therewithal, 
That  ever  lover  dealt  in. 

Ath.  Love  is  wild, 

And  from  his  cradle  has  the  wildest  thoughts. 
I  could  make  strange  confessions. 

Meantime  his  secret  has  been  betrayed  to  Edgar  by 
Dunstan's  contrivance.  The  court  jester  sings  in  the 
presence  of  Edgar  and  Edith  a  song  which  conveys  to  the 
king  that  he  has  been  cheated  by  his  favorite  noble.  A 
messenger  now  announces  to  Athelwold  the  king's  ap- 
proach. Athelwold  tells  Elfrida  the  truth  as  to  his  for- 
mer mission,  and  suggests  as  their  only  means  of  escape 
that  she  disguise  her  beauty  by  some  artifice  during  the 
king's  visit,  and  afterward  they  will  take  refuge  on  the 
Continent.  But  Elfrida  is  piqued  :  — 

Elf.  From  all  which  story  now  first  told  me,  thane, 
I  gather  this  —  I  was  marked  out  to  be 


"ATHELWOLD."  121 

The  queen  of  England,  and  the  messenger 
Wooed  for  himself  instead. 

Ath.  And  won  thee,  dear. 

Won  thee  forever  —  is 't  not  so  ? 

Elf.  And  further 

That  this  ambassador,  to  gain  his  ends, 
Slandered  my  beauty  to  his  royal  master. 

Ath.  Which  love  will  amply  justify  to  thee, 
Though  in  my  memory  it  should  rankle  still. 

Elf.  I  have  been  told  that  true  and  valiant  hearts 
Would  just  as  soon  recant  their  Christian  faith, 
As  slander  thus  the  lady  of  their  love. 
Surely  it  was  a  cold,  considerate  love 
That  could  consent  to  such  an  artifice. 

Ath.  Cold  and  considerate  !     Oh,  what  words  are  these  ? 
A  change,  Elfrida,  has  come  over  thee, 
An  altered  manner,  and  a  tone  which  I 
Have  fought  against,  refusing  to  receive 
Into  my  mind  their  due  significance. 
Considerate  love  !     By  Heaven  !     I  purchased  thee 
With  loss  of  all  men  value  upon  earth. 

Elf.  Of  that  you  best  may  judge.    It  seems  that  I 
Am  here  the  person  wronged,  yet  through  thy  tale, 
Which  well  expounds  thy  falsehood  to  the  king, 
And  thine  own  peril,  I  have  heard  no  word 
Which  speaks  of  my  irreparable  wrong. 

Ath.  Thy  wrong  !     I  made  thee  wife  of  Athelwold. 

Elf.  I  have  been  libelled,  cheated  of  a  crown, 
Kept  here  in  secrecy,  your  guilty  prize, 
Told  to  begrime  my  cheek  to  the  foul  hue 
You  doubtless  gave  it  in  your  narrative, 
And,  last  of  all,  am  promised  —  as  reward 
Of  spousal  tame  obedience  —  fair  exchange 
For  royal  honours  pilfered  from  my  brow  — 
A  banishment  to  Rome.     What 's  Rome  to  me  ? 
Be  sure  you  give  it  out  to  all  your  friends 
That  you  have  hid  me  in  this  privacy, 
And  now  exile  me,  out  of  very  shame 
Of  my  deformities. 

Ath.  Bear  witness,  Heaven  ! 

I  doubted  not  Elfrida  would  have  deemed  it 
A  nobler  destiny  to  wed  with  one 
Who  honourably  loved,  than  to  be  queen 


WILLIAM  SMITH. 

Of  a  lascivious  monarch,  faithless,  vain, 
And  fickle  as  the  wind,  —  But  low  indeed 
Must  Athelwold  have  fallen  to  play  the  part 
Of  his  own  advocate. 

Elf.  Oh,  give  me  back 

My  maiden  state,  and  let  me  play  the  game 
Of  life  out  fairly  !     What  hadst  thou  to  come 
'Twixt  me  and  England's  monarch  ?     It  was  mine 
To  choose  or  to  reject.     But  justice  now, 
Redress  and  restoration  of  my  rights, 
You  cannot  give  —  't  is  folly  to  demand. 
Even  the  poor  show  of  sorrow  —  which  were  here 
So  safe  —  you  deign  not  to  put  on,  nor  speak 
As  one  who  has  his  peace  to  make  with  me. 

Aih.  Let  the  king  come  !  —  throw  wide  the  doors  for  him  ! 
I  have  no  wife.     She  whom  I  took  for  mine, 
She  is  already  Edgar's.     Vanity 
Has  seized  at  once  each  passage  of  thy  heart. 
—  O  God  !  and  did  I  give  my  very  soul 
To  this  mere  mask  ! 

Elf.  What  insulting  gaze 

Is  this  you  fix  upon  my  face,  my  lord  ? 

Aih.  Insulting  ?     Oh,  no,  no  !  —  I  do  admire, 
Thou  supernatural  mischief  !  —  do  adore, 
Thou  sweetest  incarnation  of  the  power 
That  tempts  but  to  destroy  !  —  Oh,  thou  fiend, 
Incomparably  armed  to  clutch  men's  souls, 
All  Hell  does  worship  thee  !  —  Nay,  let  me  look,  — 
Give  me  leave  still. 

The  king  arrives,  is  captivated  by  Elf rida's  beauty,  and, 
when  alone  with  Athelwold,  turns  fiercely  upon  him  for 
his  treachery.  Athelwold  makes  no  defence  or  resist- 
ance. The  king,  relenting  a  little  toward  his  old  favorite, 
offers  to  spare  his  forfeited  life  if  he  will  consent  to  a 
divorce  from  Elfrida,  for  which  some  pretext  can  be  in- 
vented. Athelwold  refuses  —  the  king  may  take  his  life, 
but  he  will  not  assist  in  his  scheme  for  wedding  Elfrida 
by  accepting  a  divorce  —  though  his  own  love  for  her  is 
dead. 


"ATHELWOLD."  123 

Edgar.  Then  aid 

In  this  divorce. 

A  th.  Not  with  your  canonist. 

Edgar.  Madman  !  —  But  thus  it  is.  —  Men  of  your  stamp 
Long  while  so  wise,  discreet  and  disciplined, 
Take  they  some  single  passion  to  their  breast, 
They  are  self-willed  as  Satan,  nothing  daunts; 
Honour  and  priestcraft,  they  outface  them  all  — 
It  is  their  will  —  in  open  day  they  fling 
Their  conscience  down  before  the  gaping  crowd, 
And  it  may  roar  aloud,  they  can  defy 
The  universal  storm.     That  fever  past, 
Lo,  they  are  cold  again  as  rocks,  unmoved 
As  adamant,  and  come  this  very  world 
With  sober  counsel  and  with  friendly  aid, 
They  have  their  virtue  then  —  their  scruples  then  — 
Nor  of  a  hair's-breadth  can  be  turned  aside 
Out  of  their  mulish  path  of  rectitude. 
—  Yet  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  honour  more, 
Who  didst  betray  thy  sovereign,  false  thane  ? 

Ath.  Who  spoke  of  virtue  —  who  of  rectitude  — 
Who  here  of  honour  breathed  one  single  word  ? 
Not  I  —  not  I  !  —  the  simple  "  I  will  not," 
Was  all  my  answer.     What  !  shall  none  but  kings 
Be  peremptory  ?  —  Thou  mere  selfish  man, 
Stranger  to  generous  thought,  fall  I  within 
The  scope  of  thy  rebuke  ?     Could  one  step  sink  me 
To  the  poor  level  of  your  majesty  ? 
Are  years  of  discipline,  and  all  the  pride 
Of  virtue  in  one  error  lost  ?     Not  so. 
I  look  that  wretched  error  in  the  face  — 
Know  it  for  what  it  is  —  but  I  '11  not  grow 
Like  to  my  fault  by  gazing  on  it.  —  Honour 
May  show  on  me  like  tarnished  panoply, 
Bruised,  battered,  and  decayed  —  I  know  it  yet 
An  armour  of  good  proof. 

Elfrida  has  at  first  toyed  with  the  fancy  of  a  royal  con- 
quest. When  she  has  charmed  the  king  by  her  beauty, 
she  learns  from  Gilbertha  that  Athelwold  has  been  thrown 
into  prison.  Still  for  a  moment  she  dallies  with  the 
thought  of  queenship.  Then  Gilbertha's  horror  recalls 


124  WILLIAM   SMITH. 

her  to  her  better  self.  Meeting  Edgar  again,  who  now 
makes  bold  suit  to  her,  she  realizes  his  worthlessness.  But 
her  remorse  comes  too  late.  Either  Athelwold  must  die, 
or  the  king  will  either  seize  her  as  his  mistress,  or  drive 
them  forth  as  beggars  and  outcasts.  Athelwold  in  his 
prison  is  visited  by  Dunstan,  who  now  tries  once  more  to 
win  him  to  the  church. 

Dunstan.  Joy  is  a  weak  and  giddy  thing,  that  laughs 
Itself  to  weariness  or  sleep,  and  wakes 
To  the  same  barren  laughter  ;  't  is  a  child 
Perpetually,  and  all  its  past  and  future 
Lie  in  the  compass  of  an  infant's  thought. 
Crushed  from  our  sorrow  all  that 's  great  in  man 
Has  ever  sprung.     In  the  young  pagan  world 
Men  deified  the  beautiful,  the  glad, 
The  strong,  the  boastful,  and  it  came  to  nought; 
We  have  raised  Pain  and  Sorrow  into  Heaven, 
And  in  our  temples,  on  our  altars,  Grief 
Stands  symbol  of  our  faith,  and  it  shall  last 
As  long  as  man  is  mortal  and  unhappy. 
The  gay  at  heart  may  wander  to  the  skies, 
And  harps  be  found  them,  and  the  branch  of  palm 
Be  put  into  their  hands;  —  our  earthly  church 
Knows  not  of  such ;  —  no  votarist  of  our  faith 
Till  he  has  dropped  his  tears  into  the  stream 
Tastes  of  its  sweetness. 

Ath.  Wherefore  this  to  me  ? 

Dun.  Because  to  spirits  wounded  but  not  weak 
The  church  is  more  than  refuge,  it  transmutes 
Calamity  to  greatness.     Athelwold, 
The  same  bold  promises  that  church  held  forth 
To  the  rich  noble,  to  the  favoured  thane, 
The  envied  of  a  court,  she  proffers  still 
To  him  who  by  his  angry  sovereign  now 
Is  pillaged,  captived,  and  condemned  to  death. 

Ath.  If  to  my  death,  why  talk  of  promises  ? 

Dun.  The  vow  divorces.     Not  his  rage  alone 
The  amorous  Edgar  seeks  to  gratify  : 
Behold  the  path  of  safety  as  of  honour. 

Ath.  (Rising.)  I  hear  and  hear  not.  —  What  I  am  become 
You  partly  know,  but  how  it  is  within, 


"ATHELWOLD."  125 

How  blank  and  desolate,  ye  cannot  tell. 
My  life  is  gone  from  ine  —  claims  not  a  care  — 
Lies  on  the  future  an  unvalued  thing, 
Untended  and  unowned. 

Dun.  Think  of  the  passing  hour,  think  of  the  peril 
That  in  each  moment  rides.     Let  me  conduct  thee 
Now  to  some  sanctuary  — 

Ath.  That  I  may  kneel 

Perpetual  liar  in  your  temples  ?  —  No, 
There  is  an  honour  to  the  absent  God, 
To  the  veiled  skies  a  chastity  of  speech. 
Dunstan,  I  can  in  you  discern  a  spirit 
Of  no  mean  order,  but  I  know  my  own 
Not  subject  to  it ;  all  in  vain  you  seek 
To  mould  its  destinies.     The  god  who  hung 
On  the  scathed  rock  — the  vulture  at  his  heart  — 
Dowered  with  high  wisdom  and  eternal  pain, 
I  share  his  spirit,  though  I  lie  too  low 
To  share  the  vision. 

Elfrida  comes  in,  having  received  from  the  king  the 
password  which  gives  authority  over  the  guards.  By 
every  plea  she  appeals  to  her  husband's  heart. 

Elf.  Condemn  me  not  unheard.     My  lord,  my  lord, 
I  do  entreat  thee,  hear  me  !     I  was  weak  — 
I  was  a  very  child  —  my  trial  came, 
Surprised,  and  overthrew  me.     Would  to  Heaven 
That  trial  might  but  come  again !  —  I  Ve  learned 
More  of  my  heart  in  these  few  dreadful  hours 
Than  all  my  life  had  taught  —  I  do  know  now 
How  I  would  meet  it.     Oh,  be  merciful ! 
Had  you,  my  lord,  shown  but  a  little  pity 
On  my  first  wavering  thought,  had  you  but  deigned 
When  my  rash  anger  was  subsiding  fast 
To  reason  with  me,  and  my  weak  chagrin 
To  soothe  with  kinder  speech,  deigned  but  a  little, 
A  little  solace  to  my  pettish  pride, 
—  Oh,  you  have  flattered  when  there  was  less  need  — 
I  had  been  tractable  —  you  would  have  saved  me. 
I  was  a  child,  and  you  —  you  met  my  anger 
As  equal  meets  an  equal  —  was  it  well  ? 


126  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

The  woman  that  is  beautiful  ye  love. 
But  wrong  as  much  by  that  high  estimate 
Which  makes  and  leaves  her  weakest  of  her  sex. 
Say,  Athelwold,  will  you  condemn  forever 
For  one  brief  hour  of  weakness  ? 

But  Athelwold  is  inexorable.  We  feel  that  if  her  sin 
alone  were  in  question,  he  might  relent ;  but  to  have  for- 
feited his  own  honor  for  a  prize  which  has  proved  so  poor 
a  thing  seals  up  in  him  all  fountains  of  tenderness.  He 
scornfully  bids  her  back  to  Edgar.  She  eagerly  offers  to 
share  with  him  poverty  and  exile,  —  it  is  all  in  vain. 
Driven  desperate  she  proposes  to  slay  Edgar  and  share 
his  throne  with  Athelwold.  Either  that,  or  —  for  he  is 
still  immovable  —  his  own  death  !  He  throws  her  off  ; 
she  calls  the  guard,  and  with  a  gesture  gives  the  signal  for 
his  instant  death.  Dunstan,  returning  with  the  king  to 
save  Athelwold,  comes  too  late.  The  miserable  woman 
cares  nothing  for  his  rebukes,  —  her  heart  is  with  the  man 
she  has  murdered  ;  she  will  seize  all  earth  now  has  for 
her,  the  throne  ;  but  she  speaks  her  own  sentence. 

Oh,  ye  wise  priests  that  have  one  constant  song 

For  all  men  and  all  seasons,  ye  but  know 

Scantly  the  human  heart.     Ye  weigh  a  sin 

Ta'en  in  its  final  full  accomplishment, 

And  weigh  its  penance  out  — but  of  the  sinner 

And  how  he  came  to  stumble  on  the  crime, 

How  little  do  ye  reck  !  —  But  yesterday 

I  was  a  woman  beautiful  and  vain, 

The  malice  of  the  world  could  say  no  worse; 

One  little  day,  one  angry  fluttering  thought, 

And  it  has  come  to  this  !     Go,  scan  this  change, 

Go,  weigh  this  heart,  and  to  a  fraction  tell 

Its  sum  of  guilt  —  say  what  the  sort  of  wretch 

I  am  amongst  the  damned.     Turn  o'er  your  books  — 

Ruffle  their  leaves  —  peruse  and  ponder  well  — 

Oh,  ye  '11  not  find  it  there. 

As  the  nobles  approach  to  do  homage  to  the  new  queen, 
she  falls  with  a  shriek  on  Athelwold's  body  —  and  the  cur- 
tain drops. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  TRAVELLER. 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

IN  the  summer  of  1842  a  great  grief  befell  him.  His 
dear  mother  died  at  the  age  of  seventy-five,  having  sur- 
vived her  husband  nineteen  years.  I  have  spoken  of  the 
peculiar  tenderness  between  the  mother  and  son.  Some 
friends  who  remember  her  well  have  described  her  to  me 
in  her  later  years,  placid  and  smiling  in  her  arm-chair, 
knitting  away,  with  William  seated  on  a  footstool  beside 
her,  kissing  her  hand,  interrupting  her  work  by  his  play- 
ful and  tender  raillery,  she  pretending  to  chide,  —  she,  so 
proud,  so  fond !  Into  his  intellectual  nature,  his  thought- 
life,  the  dear  mother  did  not  and  could  not  enter,  but  she 
had  a  boundless  love  for  him ;  his  comforts,  his  tastes, 
were  paramount  with  her  —  he  was  her  first  object  al- 
ways ;  and  his  sister,  Mrs.  Walker,  the  "  dear  Esther  "  of 
the  early  Glasgow  letter,  writes  to  me:  "I  shall  never 
forget  the  desolation  of  heart  William  expressed  when  the 
grave  closed  over  our  mother."  Later,  his  wife  and  he 
held  it  as  a  treasure  in  common  that  both  were  the  young- 
est and  peculiarly  loved  children  of  their  mothers,  and 
never  felt  their  hearts  more  closely  knit  together  than  when 
speaking  of  them.  I  believe  that  he  spent  the  winter  of 
that  first  orphan  year  with  a  married  sister.  Afterwards 
the  dreary  London  lodging  life  to  which  Mr.  Lewes  refers 
must  have  set  in. 

The  autumn  of  1843  was  spent  by  my  husband  in  Paris, 
where  the  lectures  at  the  Sorbonne  were  his  especial 
interest.  I  have  before  me  a  note  to  his  sister,  Mrs. 


128  WILLIAM   SMITH. 

Weigall,  characteristically  describing  his  position  in  a 
French  boarding-house:  "Stuttering  out  my  broken  sen- 
tences of  French,  thinking  it  a  great  good  fortune  if  the 
simplest  thing  I  utter  is  understood,  and  a  great  honour  if 
the  dullest  person  in  the  company  will  condescend  to  talk 
with  me." 

I  know  that  for  a  time  William  Smith  went  the  West- 
ern Circuit,  but  to  him  it  proved  u  so  expensive  and  prof- 
itless he  had  to  relinquish  it."  Probably  he  had  already 
done  so  at  this  time,  for  in  the  summer  of  1845  he  made  a 
tour  in  Switzerland.  How  intensely  he  enjoyed  it  appears 
in  a  paper,  "  The  Mountain  and  the  Cloud,"  written  on  his 
return,  and  published  in  "  Blackwood's  Magazine." 

The  winter  following  was  spent  in  Brussels  at  the  house 
of  his  eldest  brother  Frederick  (who  had  for  some  years 
lived  in  Belgium),  where  William  had  the  cheerful  com- 
panionship of  young  nieces.  It  was  there  that  he  wrote 
"  Sir  William  Crichton,"  l  which  appeared,  with  a  reprint 
of  "  Athelwold  "  and  of  his  two  early  poems,  in  a  small,  a 
very  small,  unpretending  volume,  published  by  Pickering 
towards  the  end  of  1846.  This  small  volume  was  never 

1  Sir  William  Crichton  ranks  with  Athelwold  in  power  and  beauty. 
Serjeant  Talfourd,  indeed,  gives  it  the  preference,  though  such  a 
judgment  seems  questionable  in  consideration  of  the  unrelieved 
gloom  which  darkens  the  later  drama.  Its  most  impressive  and  ter- 
rible figure  is  a  monk  who,  while  blameless  in  conduct,  is  haunted 
by  a  profound  scepticism,  which  makes  him  seem  to  himself  and  to 
others  the  guiltiest  of  men,  and  who  voices  the  most  melancholy 
sense  of  the  nothingness  to  which  life  is  reduced  when  faith  is  de- 
stroyed. The  other  elements  of  the  story  are  scarcely  less  tragic, 
including  a  conflict  between  public  and  private  duty,  in  which  either 
choice  gives  but  a  maimed  virtue  ;  while  Fate  at  last  whelms  all  in 
irremediable  disaster.  The  contrast  is  wonderful  between  that  side 
of  the  author's  personality  which  his  wife  depicts  in  these  pages 
—  equable,  sweet-tempered,  joy-giving  —  and  that  aspect  of  gloom- 
iest contemplation  which  this  drama  displays,  a  gloom  which  seems 
the  heavier  and  more  unescapable  because  expressed  with  such  com- 
posure. 


THE   TRAVELLER.  129 

widely  circulated,  but  it  met  with  cordial  recognition  from 
a  few.  Walter  Savage  Landor  was  one  of  those  who  esti- 
mated it  highly.  It  is  to  Mr.  Weigall  that  I  owe  this 
knowledge.  He  writes  thus  :  "  About  eighteen  years  ago 
I  saw  a  great  deal  of  Landor.  On  one  occasion  I  men- 
tioned William's  works.  He  said  immediately :  '  I  know 
Mr.  Smith,  and  everything  he  has  published.  I  have  a 
great  respect  for  him,  sir.  There  are  things  in  his  works 
quite  equal  to  anything  that  Shakespeare  ever  wrote.'  I 
said  I  was  much  gratified  to  hear  him  say  so,  and  wished 
the  world  thought  so  too.  He  replied,  '  The  world  does 
not  think  so  now,  because  it  is  chiefly  composed  of  fools ; 
but  I  know  it,  and  I  believe  some  day  the  world  will  agree 
with  me.' " 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  1846  that  my  husband  visited 
Italy.1  He  travelled,  as  usual,  alone,  and  with  eager,  un- 
resting haste.  I  have  heard  him  say  that  he  spoke  to  no 
one ;  that  the  excitement  the  marvels  of  ancient  art  occa- 
sioned was  inexpressible ;  that  he  went  on  from  place  to 
place  regardless  of  fatigue. 

On  his  homeward  way  he  became  ill,  and  had  to  make 
a  halt  at  his  eldest  brother's  house  in  Brussels.  By  him 
William  was,  as  I  have  often  heard  the  latter  recall,  most 
tenderly  nursed.  In  many  particulars  there  was  a  family 
likeness  between  the  two  men.  Both  had  the  faculty  of 
inspiring  intense  affection  in  those  who  knew  them  best, 
both  the  same  refined  courtesy  in  domestic  life.  Their 
cast  of  mind  was  indeed  dissimilar,  but  the  elder  brother 
fully  appreciated  the  nature  of  the  younger.  I  shall  never 
forget  his  looking  at  William  with  moistened  eyes,  on  the 

1 1  think  it  must  have  been  before  this  that  the  bust  given  as 
frontispiece  was  taken.  The  sculptor,  Mr.  Weigall,  writes  of  it  as 
follows  :  "  I  saw  then  in  William  the  profound  philosopher,  the  pen- 
etrating, calm,  judicious  critic,  and  the  tender,  passionate  poet  ;  and 
I  believe,  to  those  who  have  eyes  to  see  such  things,  all  these  phases 
of  his  character  may  be  found  in  the  bust."  —  L.  C.  S. 


130  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

occasion  of  a  flying  visit  of  ours  many  years  later,  and 
saying:  "He  was  always  quite  different  from  the  rest  of 
the  world."  His  daughters,  too,  most  lovingly  remember 
the  student  uncle,  so  interested  in  their  pursuits,  so  en- 
couraging, so  playful.  In  him  the  solitary  nature  was 
strangely  combined,  or  I  might  rather  say  alternated,  with 
the  eminently  social.  When  he  did  come  out  of  his  own 
element  of  abstract  thought,  it  was  to  enter  with  genuine 
interest  into  the  very  slightest  concerns  of  others ;  to  set 
talk  flowing  with  greater  spontaneity ;  to  bring  out  the 
best  of  every  mind.  He  came  into  a  room  where  he  felt 
himself  welcome  like  an  influx  of  fresh  air  and  light. 
Whoever  he  addressed  was  conscious  of  a  certain  exhilara- 
tion and  increased  freedom,  for  he,  more  than  any  person 
I  have  known,  "  gave  one  leave  to  be  one's  self." 

But  it  may  be  asked,  Why  are  not  more  of  his  own 
letters  quoted  to  illustrate  his  character  better  than  the 
words  of  another  can  ?  I  do  not  know  that  there  are  any 
of  his  early  letters  extant.  At  no  time  of  his  life  does  he 
appear  to  have  kept  up  a  large  or  varied  correspondence, 
and  he  had  an  especial  dislike  to  letters  of  his  being  pre- 
served or  referred  to.  In  more  than  one  case  I  know  he 
entreated  that  they  should  be  destroyed,  and  (however 
reluctantly)  his  wish  was  complied  with.  I  think  it  pro- 
ceeded from  the  same  quite  abnormal  sensitiveness  that 
made  him  shrink  not  only  from  any  allusion  to  his  own 
books,  but  from  the  very  sight  of  them.  Never  was  I 
able  to  keep  a  volume  of  his  writings  on  table  or  shelf  for 
three  days  together !  Silently  they  would  be  abstracted 
or  pushed  into  some  dark  recess.  But  as  to  his  letters,  — 
though  naturally  I  am  averse  to  extract  from  my  own 
stores,  and  I  have  no  letters  on  general  subjects  to  draw 
from,  —  I  know  from  testimony  as  well  as  experience  that 
they  were  quite  special  in  their  simplicity  and  natural 
grace.  No  one  familiar  with  him  could  possibly  have  at- 
tributed his  shortest  note  to  any  other  person.  It  was 


THE   TRAVELLER.  131 

sure  to  bear  some  indefinable  stamp  of  his  individuality. 
Here  is  a  passage  of  his  regarding  the  letters  of  Southey, 
most  applicable  to  his  own  :  — 

The  letters,  as  we  advance  through  these  volumes,  become 
more  and  more  characterized  by  that  consummate  ease  and  un- 
studied elegance  which  are  the  result  only  of  long  practice  in 
composition  ;  for  the  perfect  freedom  and  grace  of  the  epistolary 
style  may  be  described  as  the  spontaneous  expression  of  one 
previously  habituated  to  a  choice  selection  of  terms.  It  requires 
this  combination  of  present  haste  and  past  study.  The  pen 
should  run  without  a  pause,  without  an  after-thought,  and  the 
page  be  left  without  a  correction  ;  but  it  must  be  the  pen  of  one 
who  in  times  past  has  paused  very  long  and  corrected  very 
often. 

The  influence  of  William  Smith's  foreign  tours  is  trace- 
able in  his  contributions  to  "  Blackwood's  Magazine  "  dur- 
ing the  years  1846  and  1847.  "Mildred,"  a  tale  pub- 
lished in  the  latter  year,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in 
Italy,  contains  some  descriptions  of  the  treasures  of  the 
Vatican,  which  will,  I  think,  be  read  with  interest. 

They  paused  before  the  Menander  sitting  in  his  chair.  "  The 
attitude,"  said  she,  "is  so  noble  that  the  chair  becomes  a  throne. 
But  still  how  plainly  it  is  intellectual  power  that  sits  enthroned 
there  !  The  posture  is  imperial ;  and  yet  how  evident  that  it  is 
the  empire  of  thought  only  that  he  governs  in !  And  this  little 
statue  of  Esculapius,"  she  added,  *'  kept  me  a  long  while  before 
it.  The  healing  sage  —  how  faithfully  is  he  represented ! 
What  a  sad  benevolence  —  acquainted  with  pain  —  compelled 
to  inflict  even,  in  order  to  restore  !  " 

They  passed  through  the  Hall  of  the  Muses. 

"  How  serene  are  all  the  Muses  !  "  said  Winston.  "  This  is  as 
it  should  be.  Even  Tragedy,  the  most  moved  of  all,  how  evi- 
dently her  emotion  is  one  of  thought,  not  of  passion  !  Though 
she  holds  the  dagger  in  her  down-dropt  hand,  how  plainly  we 
see  that  she  has  not  used  it !  She  has  picked  it  up  from  the  floor 
after  the  fatal  deed  was  perpetrated,  and  is  musing  on  the  ter- 


132  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

rible  catastrophe,  and  the  still  more  terrible  passions  that  led 
to  it." 

They  passed  through  the  Hall  of  the  Animals,  but  this  had 
comparatively  little  attraction  for  Mildred.  Her  companion 
pointed  out  the  bronze  Centaur  for  her  admiration. 

"  You  must  break  a  Centaur  in  half,"  said  she,  "  before  I  can 
admire  it.  And  if  I  am  to  look  at  a  satyr,  pray  let  the  goat's  legs 
be  hid  in  the  bushes.  I  cannot  embrace  in  one  conception  these 
fragments  of  man  and  brute.  Come  with  me  to  the  neighbour- 
ing gallery.  I  wish  to  show  you  a  Jupiter  seated  at  the  further 
end  of  it,  which  made  half  a  Pagan  of  me  this  morning  as  I 
stood  venerating  it." 

"  The  head  of  your  Jupiter,"  said  Winston,  as  they  approached 
it,  "  is  surpassed,  I  think,  by  one  bust  of  the  same  god  that  we 
have  already  seen  ;  and  I  find  something  of  stiffness  or  rigidity 
in  the  figure ;  but  the  impression  it  makes  as  a  whole  is  very 
grand." 

"  It  will  grow  wonderfully  on  you  as  you  look  at  it,"  said  Mil- 
dred. "  How  well  it  typifies  all  that  a  Pagan  would  conceive  of 
the  powers  of  nature,  the  great  administrator  of  the  world,  who 
has  the  Fates  for  his  council !  His  power  irresistible,  but  no 
pride  in  it,  no  joy,  no  triumph.  He  is  without  passion.  In  his 
right  hand  lies  the  thunder,  but  it  reposes  on  his  thigh ;  and  his 
left  hand  rests  calmly  upon  his  tall  sceptre  surmounted  by  an 
eagle.  In  his  countenance  there  is  the  tranquillity  of  unques- 
tioned supremacy,  but  there  is  no  repose.  There  is  care,  a  con- 
stant wakefulness.  It  is  the  governor  of  a  nature  whose  ele- 
ments have  never  known  one  moment's  pause." 

In  place  of  the  further  quotations  from  "  Mildred,"  we 
give  some  extracts  from  the  paper  on  "  The  Mountain  and 
the  Cloud." 

The  cloud  is  to  the  mountain  what  motion  is  to  the  sea ;  it 
gives  it  an  infinite  variety  of  expression  —  gives  it  a  life  — 
gives  it  joy  and  sufferance,  alternate  calm,  and  terror,  and 
anger.  Without  the  cloud,  the  mountain  would  still  be  sublime, 
but  monotonous  ;  it  would  have  but  a  picture-like  existence. 

How  thoroughly  they  understand  and  sympathize  with  each 


THE   TRAVELLER.  133 

other  —  these  glorious  playmates,  these  immortal  brethren ! 
Sometimes  the  cloud  lies  supported  in  the  hollow  of  the  hill,  as  if 
out  of  love  it  feigned  weariness,  and  needed  to  be  upheld.  At 
other  times  the  whole  hill  stands  enveloped  in  the  cloud  that  has 
expanded  to  embrace  and  to  conceal  it.  No  jealousy  here. 
Each  lives  its  own  grand  life  under  the  equal  eye  of  heaven. 

As  you  approach  the  mountains,  it  seems  that  the  clouds  be- 
gin already  to  arrange  themselves  in  bolder  and  more  fantastic 
shapes.  They  have  a  fellowship  here.  They  build  their  moun- 
tains upon  mountains  —  their  mountains  which  are  light  as  air 
—  huge  structures  built  at  the  giddy  suggestion  of  the  passing 
breeze.  Theirs  is  the  wild  liberty  of  endless  change,  by  which 
they  compensate  themselves  for  their  thin  and  fleeting  existence, 
and  seem  to  mock  the  stationary  forms  of  their  stable  brethren 
fast  rooted  to  the  earth.  And  how  genially  does  the  sun  pour 
his  beam  upon  these  twin  grandeurs !  For  a  moment  they  are 
assimilated  ;  his  ray  has  permeated,  has  etherealized,  the  solid 
mountain,  has  fixed  and  defined  the  floating  vapour.  What 
now  is  the  one  but  a  stationary  cloud  ?  what  is  the  other  but  a 
risen  hill  ?  —  poised  not  in  the  air  but  in  the  flood  of  light. 

I  am  never  weary  of  watching  the  play  of  these  giant  chil- 
dren of  the  earth.  Sometimes  a  soft  white  cloud,  so  pure,  so 
bright,  sleeps,  amidst  open  sunshine,  nestled  like  an  infant  in 
the  bosom  of  a  green  mountain.  Sometimes  the  rising  upcurl- 
ing  vapour  will  linger  just  above  the  summit,  and  seem  for  a 
while  an  incense  exhaling  from  this  vast  censer.  Sometimes  it 
will  descend,  and  drape  the  whole  side  of  the  hill  as  with  a 
transparent  veil.  I  have  seen  it  sweep  between  me  and  the 
mountain  like  a  sheeted  ghost,  tall  as  the  mountain,  till  the 
strong  daylight  dissolved  its  thin  substance,  and  it  rose  again  in 
flakes  to  decorate  the  blue  heavens.  But  oh,  glorious  above  all, 
when  on  some  brightest  of  days  the  whole  mass  of  whitest 
clouds  gathers  midway  upon  the  snow-topped  mountain.  How 
magnificent  then  is  that  bright  eminence  seen  above  the  cloud  ! 
How  it  seems  rising  upwards  —  how  it  seems  borne  aloft  by 
those  innumerable  wings  —  by  those  enormous  pinions  which  I 
see  stretching  from  the  cloudy  mass  !  What  an  ascension  have 
we  here  !  —  what  a  transfiguration  !  O  Raphael !  I  will  not 
disparage  thy  name  nor  thy  art,  but  thy  angels  bearing  on  their 


134  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

wings  the  brightening  saint  to  Heaven  —  what  are  they  to  the 
picture  here  ? 

Look  !  there  —  fairly  in  the  sky  —  where  we  should  see  but 
the  pure  ether  —  above  the  clouds  which  themselves  are  sailing 
high  in  serenest  air  —  yes,  there,  in  the  blue  and  giddy  expanse, 
stands  the  solid  mountain,  glittering  like  a  diamond.  O  God ! 
the  bewildered  reason,  pent  up  in  cities,  toils  much  to  prove  and 
penetrate  thy  being  and  thy  nature  —  toils  much  in  vain.  Here, 
I  reason  not  —  I  see.  The  Great  King  lives  —  lo,  there  is  his 
throne.  .  .  . 

I  have  seen  hills  on  which  lay  the  clear  unclouded  sky, 
making  them  blue  as  itself.  I  have  gazed  on  those  beautiful 
far-receding  valleys  —  as  the  valley  of  the  Rhone  —  when  they 
have  appeared  to  collect  and  retain  the  azure  ether.  They  were 
full  of  Heaven.  Angels  might  breathe  that  air.  And  yet  I 
better  love  the  interchange,  the  wild  combination  of  cloud  and 
mountain.  Not  cloud  that  intercepts  the  sun,  but  that  reflects 
its  brilliancy,  and  brightens  round  the  hills.  It  is  but  a  gorgeous 
drapery  that  the  sky  lets  fall  on  the  broad  herculean  shoulders 
of  the  mountain.  No,  it  should  not  intercept  the  beams  of  the 
great  luminary ;  for  the  mountain  loves  the  light.  I  have  ob- 
served that  the  twilight,  so  grateful  to  the  plain,  is  mortal  to  the 
mountain.  It  craves  light  —  it  lifts  up  its  great  chalice  for 
light  —  this  great  flower  is  the  first  to  close,  to  fade,  at  the  with- 
drawal of  the  sun.  It  stretches  up  to  heaven  seeking  light; 
it  cannot  have  too  much  —  under  the  strongest  beam  it  never 
droops  —  its  brow  is  never  dazzled. 

But  then  these  clouds,  you  will  tell  me,  that  hover  about  the 
mountain,  all  wing,  all  plumage,  with  just  so  much  of  substance 
for  light  to  live  in  them  —  these  very  clouds  can  descend,  and 
thicken,  and  blacken,  and  cover  all  things  with  an  inexpressible 
gloom.  True,  and  the  mountain,  or  what  is  seen  of  it,  becomes 
now  the  very  image  of  a  great  and  unfathomable  sorrow.  And 
only  the  great  can  express  a  great  sadness.  This  aspect  of  na- 
ture shall  never  by  me  be  forgotten,  nor  will  I  ever  shrink 
N  from  encountering  it.  If  you  would  know  the  gloom  of  heart 
which  nature  can  betray,  as  well  as  the  glory  it  can  manifest, 
you  must  visit  the  mountains.  For  days  together,  clouds,  huge, 
dense,  un wieldly,  lie  heavily  upon  the  hills  —  which  stand,  how 


THE   TRAVELLER.  135 

mute,  how  mournful !  as  if  they,  too,  knew  of  death.  And  look 
at  the  little  lake  at  their  feet.  What  now  is  its  tranquillity 
when  not  a  single  sunbeam  plays  upon  it  ?  Better  the  earth 
opened  and  received  it,  and  hid  for  ever  its  leaden  despondency. 
And  now  there  comes  the  paroxysm  of  terror  and  despair  ;  deep 
thunders  are  heard,  and  a  madness  flashes  forth  in  the  vivid 
lightnings.  There  is  desperation  amongst  the  elements.  But 
the  elements,  like  the  heart  of  man,  must  rage  in  vain  —  must 
learn  the  universal  lesson  of  submission.  With  them,  as  with 
humanity,  despair  brings  back  tranquillity.  And  now  the  driving 
cloud  reveals  again  the  glittering  summits  of  the  mountains,  and 
light  falls  in  laughter  on  the  beaming  lake. 

How  like  a  ruined  Heaven  is  this  earth  !  Nay,  is  it  not  more 
beautiful  for  being  a  ruin  ?  .  .  . 

I  lie  rocking  in  a  boat  midway  between  Vevay  and  Lausanne. 
On  the  opposite  coast  are  the  low  purple  hills  crouching  beside 
the  lake.  But  there,  to  the  left,  what  an  ethereal  structure  of 
cloud  and  snowy  mountain  is  revealed  to  me  !  What  a  creation 
of  that  spirit  of  beauty  which  works  its  marvels  in  the  uncon- 
scious earth !  The  Alps  here,  while  they  retain  all  the  aerial 
effect  gathered  from  distance,  yet  seem  to  arise  from  the  very 
margin  of  the  lake.  The  whole  scene  is  so  ethereal,  you  fear  to 
look  aside,  lest  when  you  look  again  it  may  have  vanished  like  a 
vision  of  the  clouds. 

And  why  should  these  little  boats,  with  their  tall  triangular 
sails,  which  glide  so  gracefully  over  the  water,  be  forgotten  ? 
The  sail,  though  an  artifice  of  man,  is  almost  always  in  har- 
mony with  nature.  Nature  has  adopted  it  —  has  lent  it  some  of 
her  own  wild  privileges  —  her  own  bold  and  varied  contrasts  of 
light  and  shade.  The  surface  of  the  water  is  perhaps  dark  and 
overclouded ;  the  little  upright  sail  is  the  only  thing  that  has 
caught  the  light,  and  it  glitters  there  like  a  moving  star.  Or 
the  water  is  all  one  dazzling  sheet  of  silver,  tremulous  with  the 
vivid  sunbeam,  and  now  the  little  sail  is  black  as  night,  and 
steals  with  bewitching  contrast  over  that  sparkling  surface.  .  .  . 

Mont  Blanc  !  Mont  Blanc !  I  have  not  scaled  thy  heights  so 
boldly  or  so  far  as  others  have,  but  I  will  yield  to  none  in  wor- 
ship of  thee  and  thy  neighbour  mountains.  Some  complain  that 
the  valley  of  Chamouni  is  barren  ;  they  are  barren  souls  that  so 


136  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

complain.  True,  it  has  not  the  rich  pastures  that  lie  bordering 
on  the  snow  in  the  Oberland.  But  neither  does  it  need  them. 
Look  down  the  valley  from  the  pass  of  the  Col  de  Balme,  and 
see  summit  beyond  summit ;  or  ascend  the  lateral  heights  of  La 
Flegere,  and  see  the  Alps  stretched  out  in  a  line  before  you,  and 
say  if  anything  be  wanting.  Here  is  the  sculpture  of  landscape. 
Stretched  yourself  upon  the  bare  open  rock,  you  see  the  great 
hills  built  up  before  you,  from  their  green  base  to  their  snowy 
summits,  with  rock,  and  glacier,  and  pine  forests.  You  see  how 
the  Great  Architect  has  wrought.  .  .  . 

Forever  be  remembered  that  magnificent  pass  of  the  Col  de 
Balme  !  If  I  have  a  white  day  in  my  calendar,  it  is  the  day  I 
spent  in  thy  denies.  Deliberately  I  assert  that  life  has  nothing 
comparable  to  the  delight  of  traversing  alone,  borne  leisurely  on 
the  back  of  one's  mule,  a  mountain-pass  such  as  this.  Those 
who  have  stouter  limbs  may  prefer  to  use  them ;  give  me  for 
my  instrument  of  progression  the  legs  of  the  patient  and  sure- 
footed mule.  They  are  better  legs,  at  all  events,  than  mine.  I 
am  seated  on  his  back,  the  bridle  lies  knotted  upon  his  neck  — 
the  cares  of  the  way  are  all  his  —  the  toil  and  anxiety  of  it ;  the 
scene  is  all  mine,  and  I  am  all  in  it.  I  am  seated  there,  all  eye, 
all  thought,  gazing,  musing ;  yet  not  without  just  sufficient  occu- 
pation to  keep  it  still  a  luxury  —  this  leisure  to  contemplate. 
The  mule  takes  care  of  himself,  and,  in  so  doing,  of  you  too ; 
yet  not  so  entirely  but  that  you  must  look  a  little  after  yourself. 
That  he  by  no  means  has  your  safety  for  his  primary  object  is 
evident  from  this,  that,  in  turning  sharp  corners  or  traversing 
narrow  paths,  he  never  calculates  whether  there  is  sufficient 
room  for  any  other  legs  than  his  own  —  takes  no  thought  of 
yours.  To  keep  your  knees,  in  such  places,  from  collision  with 
huge  boulders,  or  shattered  stumps  of  trees,  must  be  your  own 
care  ;  to  say  nothing  of  the  occasional  application  of  whip  or 
stick,  and  a  very  strong  pull  at  his  mouth  to  raise  his  head  from 
the  grass  which  he  has  leisurely  begun  to  crop.  Seated  thus 
upon  your  mule,  given  up  to  the  scene,  with  something  still  of 
active  life  going  on  about  you,  with  full  liberty  to  pause  and 
gaze,  and  dismount  when  you  will,  and  at  no  time  proceeding  at 
a  railroad  speed,  I  do  say  —  unless  you  are  seated  by  your  own 
incomparable  Juliet,  who  has  for  the  first  time  breathed  that  she 


THE    TRAVELLER.  137 

loves  you  —  I  do  say  that  you  are  in  the  most  enviable  posi- 
tion that  the  wide  world  affords.  As  for  me,  I  have  spent  some 
days,  some  weeks,  in  this  fashion  amongst  the  mountains ;  they 
are  the  only  days  of  my  life  I  would  wish  to  live  over  again. 
But  mind,  if  you  would  really  enjoy  all  this,  go  alone  —  a  silent 
guide  before  or  behind  you.  No  friends,  no  companion,  no 
gossip.  You  will  find  gossip  enough  in  your  inn,  if  you  want 
it.  If  your  guide  thinks  it  his  duty  to  talk,  to  explain,  to  tell 
you  the  foolish  names  of  things  that  need  no  name  —  make  be- 
lieve that  you  understand  him  not  —  that  his  language,  be  it 
French  or  German,  is  to  you  utterly  incomprehensible. 

I  would  not  paint  it  all  couleur  de  rose.  The  sun  is  not  al- 
ways shining. 

There  is  tempest  and  foul  weather,  fatigue  and  cold,  and  abun- 
dant moisture  to  be  occasionally  encountered.  There  is  some- 
thing to  endure.  But  if  you  prayed  Heaven  for  perpetual  fair 
weather,  and  your  prayer  were  granted,  it  would  be  the  most 
unfortunate  petition  you  could  put  up.  Why,  there  are  some  of 
the  sublimest  aspects,  the  noblest  moods  and  tempers  of  the 
great  scene,  which  you  would  utterly  forfeit  by  this  miserable 
immunity.  He  who  loves  the  mountain  will  love  it  in  the  tem- 
pest as  well  as  in  the  sunshine.  To  be  enveloped  in  driving 
mist  or  cloud  that  obscures  everything  from  view  —  to  be  made 
aware  of  the  neighboring  precipice  only  by  the  sound  of  the  tor- 
rent that  rushes  unseen  beneath  you  —  how  low  down  you  can 
only  guess  —  this,  too,  has  its  excitement.  Besides,  while  you 
are  in  this  total  blank,  the  wind  will  suddenly  drive  the  whole 
mass  of  cloud  and  thick  vapour  from  the  scene  around  you,  and 
leave  the  most  glorious  spectacle  for  some  moments  exposed  to 
view.  Nothing  can  exceed  these  moments  of  sudden  and  par- 
tial revelation.  The  glittering  summits  of  the  mountains  appear 
as  by  enchantment  where  there  had  long  been  nothing  but  dense 
vapour.  And  how  beautiful  the  wild  disorder  of  the  clouds, 
whose  array  has  been  broken  up,  and  who  are  seen  flying  hud- 
dled together  in  tumultuous  retreat !  But  the  veering  wind  ral- 
lies them  again,  and  again  they  sweep  back  over  the  vast  ex- 
panse, and  hill  and  valley,  earth  and  sky,  are  obliterated  in  a 
second.  He  who  would  ponder  what  man  is  should  journey 


138  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

amongst  the  mountains.  What  men  are  is  best  learnt  in  the 
city.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  little  church  stands  in  the  valley  of  Chamouni.  It 
was  open,  as  is  customary  in  Catholic  countries,  to  receive  the 
visits  and  the  prayers  of  the  faithful ;  but  there  was  no  service, 
no  priest ;  nor  indeed  a  single  person  in  the  building.  It  was 
evening  —  and  a  solitary  lamp  hung  suspended  from  the  ceiling, 
just  before  the  altar.  Allured  by  the  mysterious  appearance  of 
this  lamp  burning  in  solitude,  I  entered,  and  remained  in  it  some 
time,  making  out,  in  the  dim  light,  the  wondrous  figures  of  vir- 
gins and  saints  generally  found  in  such  edifices.  When  I 
emerged  from  the  church,  there  stood  Mont  Blanc  before  me,  re- 
flecting the  last  tints  of  the  setting  sun.  I  am  habitually  tolerant 
of  Catholic  devices  and  ceremonies  ;  but  at  this  moment  how  in- 
expressibly strange,  how  very  little,  how  poor,  contemptible,  and 
like  an  infant's  toy,  seemed  all  the  implements  of  worship  I  had 
just  left ! 

And  yet  the  tall,  simple,  wooden  cross  that  stands  in  the  open 
air  on  the  platform  before  the  church,  this  was  well.  This  was 
a  symbol  that  might  well  stand,  even  in  the  presence  of  Mont 
Blanc.  Symbol  of  suffering  and  of  love,  where  is  it  out  of  place  ? 
On  no  spot  on  earth,  on  no  spot  where  a  human  heart  is  beating. 

Mont  Blanc  and  this  wooden  cross,  are  they  not  the  two  great- 
est symbols  that  the  world  can  show  ?  They  are  wisely  placed 
opposite  each  other.  .  .  . 

But  from  the  mountain  and  the  cloud  we  must  now  depart. 
We  must  wend  towards  the  plain.  One  very  simple  and  con- 
solatory thought  strikes  me  —  though  we  must  leave  the  glory 
of  the  mountain,  we  at  least  take  the  sun  with  us.  And  the 
cloud  too,  you  will  add.  Alas  !  something  too  much  of  that. 

But  no  murmurs.  We  islanders,  who  can  see  the  sun  set  on 
the  broad  ocean  —  had  we  nothing  else  to  boast  of  —  can  never 
feel  deserted  by  nature.  We  have  our  portion  of  her  excellent 
gifts.  I  know  not  yet  how  an  Italian  sky,  so  famed  for  its  deep 
and  constant  azure,  may  affect  me,  but  I  know  that  we  have  our 
gorgeous  melancholy  sunsets,  to  which  our  island  tempers  be- 
come singularly  attuned.  The  cathedral  splendours  —  the  dim 
religious  light  of  our  vesper  skies  —  I  doubt  if  I  would  exchange 
them  for  the  unmitigated  glories  of  a  southern  clime. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

SOLITUDE. 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

A  COMPLETE  and  decisive  change  in  William  Smith's 
manner  of  life  was  now  drawing  near.  I  may  mention 
an  incident  —  supplied  by  Mr.  Weigall  —  which  must 
have  closely  preceded  it.  "  Soon  before  the  Corn  Laws 
were  repealed,"  writes  Mr.  Weigall,  "  William  was  urged 
by  John  Stuart  Mill  to  attend  a  meeting  to  aid  the  advo- 
cates for  repeal.  The  Honourable  Mr.  Villiers,  Mr. 
Mill,  and  William  were  the  principal  speakers,  and  Wil- 
liam was  beyond  doubt  the  most  impressive  of  them  all. 
The  Chartists  at  the  time  were  getting  rampant,  and  were 
in  great  force  at  that  meeting,  both  men  and  women. 
They  had  disapproved  of  almost  every  wisely  qualified 
utterance  of  Mr.  Mill,  but  when  William  opened  his 
speech  with  a  most  happy  and  harmonious  sentence,  the 
women  about  me  said,  4  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  speaker ! 
don't  disturb  him,'  and  for  some  time  they  seemed  de- 
lighted ;  but  when  he  began  with  his  prescient  wisdom  to 
caution  them  against  expecting  too  much  from  the  repeal, 
that  the  effect  of  free  trade  in  corn  would  be  to  equal- 
ize prices  throughout  Europe,  they  began  to  howl  him 
down.  William  stopped  and  faced  the  turmoil  boldly, 
and  by  a  very  stirring  appeal  to  their  candour  and  sense 
of  fair-play  secured  again  their  good-will,  and  sat  down, 
the  great  success  of  the  evening.  From  what  I  observed 
on  that  occasion,"  adds  Mr.  Weigall,  "  I  felt  convinced 
that  could  William  have  overcome  his  retiring  habits  he 


1-10  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

would  have  won  distinction  in  public  life."  But  the  re- 
tiring habits  were  just  then  on  the  point  of  decisively 
prevailing. 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  in  1848  or  1849  that  my 
husband  acted  upon  a  resolve  that  must  have  been  for 
some  time  gathering,  —  the  resolve  of  entirely  relinquish- 
ing the  pursuit  of  his  profession,  and  devoting  himself  to 
thinking  and  writing,  in  perfect  solitude,  amidst  the  beau- 
tiful scenery  of  the  English  lakes.  He  had  made  no  way 
at  the  bar ;  he  was  not  likely  to  make  any  —  he  had  no 
legal  connections ;  his  heart  was  not  in  his  calling ;  his 
sensitive  nature  shrank  from  collision  with  purely  per- 
sonal aims  and  ambitions,  from  the  inevitable  turmoil  and 
dust  of  "  life's  loud  joyous  jostling  game."  He  could  not, 
with  any  hope  of  success,  compete  on  that  arena.  And, 
indeed,  in  addition  to  other  hindrances,  his  private  for- 
tune, seriously  diminished  by  a  loan  to  an  unsuccessful 
relative  (loan  which  he  in  his  refined  generosity  converted 
into  a  gift),  was  no  longer  adequate  to  the  expenses  cham- 
bers and  circuit  entailed  on  the  briefless  barrister.  Then 
there  were  other  influences  at  work.  The  "  love  of  think- 
ing for  its  own  sake  "  was  growing  irresistible,  and  was 
seconded  not  only  by  a  "  passionate  thirst  for  nature  and 
beauty,"  but  by  that  craving  for  solitude  which  strangely 
underlay  all  social  charm,  all  his  enjoyment  of  society, 
which  found  such  forcible  expression  in  his  earliest 
poems,  and  renders  portions  of  "  Thorndale  "  so  unutter- 
ably pathetic.  Circumstances  and  character  alike  now 
pointed  one  way.  There  is  a  line  of  Browning's  that 
sums  it  all  up.  Thenceforth 

"  This  man  decided  not  to  Live,  but  Know." 

My  husband  has  often  described  to  me  his  first  plunge 
into  the  new  life.  It  was  made  at  Bowness  (on  Winder- 
mere),  a  quiet  village  in  those  days.  There  he  took  a 
small  lodging,  where  the  sitting  -  room  opened  into  a 
garden,  and  for  six  months  he  never  spoke  to  a  creature, 


SOLITUDE.  141 

except  indeed  the  few  words  of  necessity  to  his  landlady. 
It  comforts  one  to  remember  what  loving  letters  from 
sisters  and  nieces  must  have  varied  that  solitude,  as  well 
as  what  high  raptures  Nature  and  Thought  bestowed  upon 
their  devotee.  And  then  the  winters  were  always  social. 
Some  weeks  would  be  spent  at  the  house  of  his  brother-in- 
law,  Mr.  Weigall,  where  there  were  clever  nephews  grow- 
ing up  and  two  much-loved  nieces,  of  whom  his  sister  has 
told  me  he  was  "  the  idol  and  the  oracle."  Some  would 
be  pleasantly  passed  at  Bath  or  Brighton,  where  he  had 
several  friends. 

In  1851  his  still  secluded  summer  life  was  varied  by  an 
incident  that  might  have  given  a  different  direction  to  all 
his  future.  One  day  the  following  letter  from  Professor 
Wilson  was  delivered  to  him.  Although  it  is  marked 
"  strictly  private  and  confidential,"  there  can  be  no  indis- 
cretion in  giving  it  now  and  here :  — 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  Our  excellent  friend  John  Blackwood  has 
kindly  undertaken  to  put  this  letter  into  your  hands  at  Bowness, 
or  if  not,  to  find  your  direction  there  and  forward  it  to  you. 
My  health  has  become  very  lately  so  precarious  that  I  have 
been  interdicted  by  my  medical  adviser  from  lecturing  this  en- 
suing session,  and  I  can  think  of  no  man  so  qualified  meanwhile 
to  discharge  for  me  the  duties  of  my  Chair  as  yourself.  I  am 
therefore  most  anxious,  without  delay,  to  see  you  here,  when  I 
will  explain  fully  to  you  what  will  be  required  from  you.  As 
yet  the  matter  is  in  my  own  hand,  and  I  do  not  fear  but  that, 
though  laborious,  your  duties  will  be  agreeable.  You  will  have 
to  give  a  course  of  lectures  on  Moral  Philosophy  to  my  class 
during  my  leave  of  absence  from  College.  It  is  absolutely 
necessary  that  you  should  be  with  me  immediately  for  a  day, 
that  you  may  empower  me  to  say  that  I  can  depend  on  you,  for 
not  a  word  can  I  utter  publicly  or  privately  without  a  perfect 
understanding  with  you.  I  shall  therefore  be  looking  for  you 
in  return  to  this,  and  be  most  happy  to  receive  you  in  my  house 
on  your  arrival.  Yours  with  all  esteem, 

JOHN  WILSON. 

6  GLOCESTER  PUVCE,  EDINBURGH,  September  29,  1851. 


142  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

Here  seemed  an  opening  every  way  congenial,  for 
William  had,  as  we  have  seen,  a  great  respect  for  Scotch 
philosophy,  and  looked  upon  the  duties  of  a  Chair  in  a 
Scotch  University  as  most  honorable  and  useful.  He  has 
told  me  that  he  asked  for  two  hours  of  deliberation,  and 
carried  the  matter  out,  to  be  revolved  and  decided  in  the 
course  of  his  morning's  walk.  He  decided  to  decline, 
swayed  by  some  scruples  (how  needless !)  as  to  his  fit- 
ness, possibly  by  some  other  scruples,  —  for  he  was  too 
truthful  ever  to  profess  certainty  where  he  was  conscious 
of  doubt,  —  swayed,  perhaps,  by  the  spell  of  the  moun- 
tains and  the  life  of  unfettered  thought,  by  the  "  spell  of 
the  desk,"  on  which  already  lay  the  early  pages  of 
"•  Thorndale."  At  all  events  he  did  decline,  nor  have  I 
ever  heard  him  express  a  regret  that  he  did  so.  I  gain  a 
glimpse  of  him  at  this  time  from  a  letter  of  Mr.  Black- 
wood's  written  to  me  after  I  lost  him:  "I  remember 
going  up  to  the  Lakes  a  great  many  years  ago,  and  find- 
ing him  all  alone  at  Bowness.  It  made  me  sad  to  leave 
him  so  solitary,  as  I  felt  that  his  fine  sensitive  nature  re- 
quired some  one  ever  nigh  who  could  sympathize  with 
him." 

In  the  May  of  1852  a  heavy  blow  fell  upon  William 
Smith.  His  favorite  brother  Theyre,  at  that  time  rector 
of  Wymondham,  in  Norfolk,  died  suddenly  and  prema- 
turely. Thenceforth  Brighton,  where  Mrs.  Theyre  Smith 
and  her  children  made  their  home,  became  a  centre  of 
tenderer  interest  to  William,  and  his  constant  winter  re- 
sort. 

It  was  in  the  same  year  that  my  husband  exchanged 
Windermere  for  Keswick  Lake,  the  lovely  Derwentwater, 
afterwards  so  dear  to  ns  both.  There  the  summer  soli- 
tude was  less  entirely  unbroken  than  heretofore.  He  was 
introduced  by  an  early  friend,  who  had  left  the  Bar  for 
the  Church  (the  Rev.  J.  H.  Smith,  of  Leamington),  to 
Dr.  Lietch,  a  physician  who  had  been  led  by  ill-health  to 


SOLITUDE.  143 

give  up  practice  in  a  large  town,  and  benefit  a  then  com- 
paratively retired  district  by  his  active  and  enlightened 
benevolence.  How  refreshing  the  society  of  each  to  the 
other  appears  from  a  letter  written  to  me  by  Dr.  Lietch 
in  the  October  of  1872  :  — 

In  1852,  '53,  and  '54,  when  your  husband  was  at  work  on 
"  Thorndale,"  I  saw  much  of  him  ;  the  old  felled  spruce-tree, 
converted  into  a  rude  seat  on  the  hill  of  Faw  Park,  is  still,  or 
was  last  year,  in  existence,  on  which  we  often  sat  and  talked  of 
many  things,  which,  when  "  Thorndale  "  was  published  and  sent 
to  me  by  him,  were  vividly  recalled  to  me.  At  that  time  there 
was  something  of  Clarence  in  him,  something  (at  times  much) 
of  Cyril,  occasionally  gloomy  flashes  of  Seckendorf,  and  fre- 
quently "  the  perfect  tranquillity  with  which  the  poet  would  ad- 
mit, on  some  most  momentous  subjects,  his  profound  ignorance." 
The  "  wistful  perpetual  argument "  which  was  his  life  was  then 
going  on  with  incessant  energy,  and  was  more  visible  to  me 
then  than  during  the  last  twelve  or  fifteen  years  of  his  life, 
when  I  saw  less  of  him,  and  when,  indeed,  your  presence  and 
love  had  silenced  many  conflicts,  and  reconciled  him  to  many 
doubts  and  difficulties  in  this  incomprehensible  world. 

Several  summers  had  now  been  spent  at  Portinscale, 
a  pretty  hamlet  within  a  short  walk  of  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Leitch's  cheerful  and  kindly  home  ;  but  in  1856  an  at- 
tractive row  of  new  lodging-houses,  and  the  close  vicinity 
of  the  very  excellent  library  that  the  town  of  Keswick 
possesses,  induced  William  Smith  to  move  to  3  Derwent- 
water  Place.  And  there,  in  a  light,  pleasant,  three-win- 
dowed room,  with  peeps  of  lake  and  mountains,  "  Thorn- 
dale  "  was  getting  finished. 


There  is  not  a  word  of  outward  event  to  add  to  this 
brief  story  of  retirement  from  the  world.  For  these  six 
or  seven  years  the  action  halts.  But  we  must  dwell  a  lit- 
tle on  the  significance  of  this  most  characteristic  phase  of 
the  man's  life. 


-  WILLIAM   SMITH. 

We  may  say  that  of  the  two  worlds,  —  the  active  life 
of  society,  and  the  life  of  thought  alone  with  nature,  —  in 
the  former  he  felt  himself  helpless,  incompetent,  astray  ; 
while  in  the  latter  he  was  free,  at  home,  and  strong.  His 
unfitness  for  active  society  was  partly  real,  as  judged  by 
ordinary  standards,  and  partly  lay  in  the  distance  between 
his  fastidious  ideal  and  the  possibilities  of  actual  exist- 
ence. Others  thought  him  a  success  where  he  recognized 
hardly  more  than  failure.  He  was  considered  a  delight- 
ful companion  in  that  social  intercourse  where  he  thought 
himself  out  of  his  element.  In  his  Corn-law  speech,  with 
the  mastery  over  a  rebellious  audience,  we  have  a  distinct 
glimpse  of  robust  and  masculine  power  ;  here  seem  to  be 
"  the  wrestling  thews  that  throw  the  world."  Yet  on  the 
whole  there  is  hardly  a  greater  disqualification  for  success 
in  the  world  of  social  activity  —  a  world  whose  perpetual 
law  is  compromise  —  than  the  disposition  which  inexora- 
bly craves  the  perfect  and  ideal  good.  That  disposition 
was  in  this  man's  life-blood.  Perfection  there  is  in  the 
beauty  of  nature  —  and  to  that  he  turned  as  his  abiding- 
place.  To  find  the  perfect,  the  absolute,  is  the  very  busi- 
ness of  pure  thought,  and  to  that  business  he  could 
wholly  surrender  himself.  With  Emerson  he  might  have 
said  "  Good-by,  proud  world,  I  'm  going  home !  "  And 
Emerson's  words  of  himself  (in  his  journal  for  1839)  best 
portray  the  constitution  of  the  spiritual  recluse :  — 

Some  men  are  born  public  souls,  and  live  with  all  their  doors 
open  to  the  street.  Close  beside  them  we  find  in  contrast  the 
lonely  man,  with  all  his  doors  shut,  reticent,  thoughtful,  shrink- 
ing from  crowds,  afraid  to  take  hold  of  hands  ;  thankful  for  the 
existence  of  the  other,  but  incapable  of  such  performance,  won- 
dering at  its  possibility  ;  and  though  loving  his  race,  discovering 
at  last  that  he  has  no  proper  sympathy  with  persons,  but  only 
with  their  genius  and  aims.  He  is  solitary  because  he  has  so- 
ciety in  his  thought,  and  when  people  come  in  they  drive  away 
his  society.  .  .  .  Never  having  found  any  remedy,  I  am  very 


SOLITUDE.  145 

patient  of  this  folly  or  shame  ;  patient  of  my  churl's  mask,  in 
the  belief  that  this  privation  has  certain  rich  compensations. 
And  yet,  in  one  who  sets  his  mark  so  high,  who  presumes  so  vast 
an  elevation  as  the  birthright  of  man,  is  it  not  a  little  sad  to  be 
a  mill  or  pump,  yielding  one  wholesome  product  in  one  particu- 
lar mode,  but  as  impertinent  and  worthless  in  any  other  place 
or  purpose  as  a  pump  or  coffee-mill  would  be  in  a  parlour  ? 

To  the  man,  and  still  more  to  the  woman,  whose  inner 
fibre  is  all  interwoven  with  warm  and  close  human  sympa- 
thies, it  is  scarcely  possible  to  interpret  or  even  hint  at  the 
delight  which  may  lie  in  lonely  musing.  Says  Emerson  : 
"  It  is  strange  how  painful  is  the  actual  world,  —  the  pain- 
ful kingdom  of  time  and  space.  There  dwell  care,  canker, 
and  fear.  With  thought,  with  the  ideal,  is  immortal  hilar- 
ity, the  rose  of  joy.  Round  it  all  the  muses  sing.  But 
with  names  and  persons  and  the  partial  interests  of  to-day 
and  yesterday  is  grief." 

Lowell  portrays  Columbus,  on  the  verge  of  his  discov- 
ery, brooding  apart  from  his  crew  :  — 

"  If  the  chosen  soul  could  never  be  alone, 
In  deep  mid-silence,  open-doored  to  God, 
No  greatness  ever  had  been  dreamed  or  done; 
Among  dull  hearts  a  prophet  never  grew; 
The  nurse  of  full-grown  souls  is  solitude." 

Yet  the  name  of  Columbus  reminds  us  that  the  great 
purposes  which  grow  in  solitude  are  fulfilled  in  society, 
and  that  he  who  saw  the  new  world  first  with  inner  eye 
led  the  way  to  it  through  intriguing  courts  and  mutinous 
sailors.  Moses  dwells  long  in  the  desert  with  only  God 
for  his  society,  but  he  goes  forth  to  be  leader  and  servant 
of  a  nation  of  emancipated  slaves.  So  must  it  always  be 
with  the  greatest  leaders  of  men. 

But  there  are  pure  and  lofty  souls  who  have  no  vocation 
to  be  leaders  of  the  multitude.  Their  service  is  humbler 
perhaps,  but  they  may  be  no  less  faithful  to  their  calling. 
The  words  put  in  the  mouth  of  Athehvold  speak  the  au- 
thor's own  heart :  — 


146  WILLIAM  SMITH, 

This  strange  world  of  ours 
This  dire  complexity  of  pain  and  joy, 
.  .  .  this  huge  world, 
So  lubber  great,  so  intricately  fine, 
Beyond  the  scope  of  any  single  eye, 
Beyond  the  skill  of  any  single  hand, 
To  scan  or  regulate,  —  I  touch  it  not ! 
I  cannot  frame  a  happiness  for  want, 
Passion,  and  toil  —  nor  fashion  creeds  for  them; 
I  cannot  teach,  with  formal  discipline, 
This  many-hearted  monster  how  to  live; 
I  cannot  fit  the  singleness  of  truth 
To  its  untold  variety. 

Dunstan  has  his  place,  and  Athelwold  has  his,  and  it 
is  all  in  vain  that  the  former  speaks  his  warning :  — 

Know  this  —  that  he  who  towers 
Above  his  kind,  nor  can  be  taught  of  them, 
Who  trusts  his  faith  to  solitary  thought, 
Who  strains  his  ear  for  accents  from  the  skies, 
Or  tasks  the  wavering  oracle  within, 
Shall  feed  on  heavenly  whispers,  few  and  faint, 
And  dying  oft  to  stillness  terrible  ! 

No  doubt,  too,  there  is  some  moral  deprivation  in  the 
exemption  from  the  trivial  labors  and  responsibilities  of 
domestic  and  social  life.  Tennyson  speaks  truly  of 

"  The  cares  that  petty  shadows  cast 
By  which  our  life  is  chiefly  proved." 

But  to  every  man  is  set  his  lot  and  his  vocation,  and  we 
can  scarcely  wonder  that  William  Smith  was  drawn  from 
the  empty  form  of  a  barrister's  life,  from  London  streets 
and  London  society,  to  the  seclusion  of  the  Westmoreland 
lakes  and  his  own  uninterrupted  thoughts.  Such  a  retreat 
might  look  to  those  absorbed  in  the  practical  service  of 
mankind  like  a  flight  from  the  appointed  battle  and  the 
manly  task.  But  of  active  workers  our  age  has  countless 
armies,  while  the  service  of  the  thinker  few  have  the 
capacity  to  render.  Nor  was  there  in  this  retirement  any 
shirking  of  his  share  in  the  world's  burden  of  pain.  It 


SOLITUDE.  147 

was  not  in  his  power  to  much  lessen  that  pain  in  material 
forms  ;  but  the  sense  of  mankind's  trouble  rested  on  him  ; 
it  was  that  which  laid  a  burden  on  his  mind,  the  burden 
with  which  he  perpetually  strove.  Might  it  not  indeed  be 
his  office  to  find  some  interpretation  of  all  the  pain  and 
sorrow  which  should  itself  be  some  lightening  of  the  load, 
and  give  some  guidance  and  aid  toward  bearing  it  ?  Some- 
thing like  this,  we  shall  find,  was  indeed  a  part  of  his  con- 
tribution to  the  common  cause ;  and  it  was  a  contribution 
he  could  only  make  when  so  far  withdrawn  from  the  im- 
mediate pressure  of  the  crowd  as  to  get  in  broader  view 
and  truer  perspective  the  movement  of  the  throng,  —  an 
oppressive  jostle  to  those  in  its  midst,  perhaps  a  trium- 
phant march  when  viewed  from  some  serene,  distant 
height. 

So  far  from  being  an  idler,  he  was  one  of  the  busiest 
of  men.  His  work  was  of  the  kind  which  is  never  laid 
aside.  It  was  with  him  while  his  eyes  rested  on  the  land- 
scape, and  when  in  the  night  he  woke  from  sleep  it  woke 
with  him.  He  was  essaying  a  task  as  great  as  man  can 
set  before  himself,  to  learn,  so  far  as  may  be,  the  plan 
of  this  universe.  None  knew  better  than  he  how  far  that 
aim  soars  beyond  the  possibilities  of  full  realization.  But 
in  the  unremitting  exploration  lay  a  fascination  and  a  pro- 
found delight,  as  well  as  a  noble  sadness.  Hours  there 
were  of  joy  in  the  perception  of  some  truth,  the  harmoniz- 
ing of  old  contradictions,  the  rapt  contemplation  of  ineffa- 
ble realities ;  joy  like  that  of 

"  Some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken." 

And  meanwhile,  month  by  month,  the  book  was  growing 
under  his  hand,  —  the  chart  that  registered  his  discoveries 
and  his  perplexities ;  the  flags  planted  on  new  islands  ;  the 
signals  and  memoranda  for  future  explorers  who  should 
push  farther  the  quest.  How  dear  to  the  author  is  the 


148  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

book  as  it  slowly  matures  in  his  brain,  slowly  shapes  itself 
in  visible  form ;  what  sacred  gestation,  as  of  the  child 
nourished  by  all  finest  distillation  of  its  mother's  frame, 
her  long-prepared,  supreme  gift  to  the  world ! 

Other  work  there  was,  less  arduous ;  the  series  of  con- 
tributions to  "  Blackwood  "  went  on  without  interruption, 
some  four  or  five  a  year ;  reviews  of  works  on  meta- 
physics, poetry,  biography,  natural  science,  law.  There 
is  one  paper  in  August,  1851,  on  "  Voltaire  in  the  Crystal 
Palace,"  which  greatly  tempts  to  quotation.  It  is  the  im- 
aginary comments  of  the  shrewd  worldling,  as  he  strolls 
through  the  great  exhibition,  and  surveys  the  material 
trophies  of  the  century.  The  vein  is  altogether  charming ; 
with  rapid,  penetrating  glance  at  social  and  industrial 
problems ;  with  satire  for  follies  of  the  day,  and  through 
all  the  amiable  temper  which  befits  a  holiday.  It  is  "  the 
philosopher  at  the  fair ; "  the  large  mind  looking  in 
kindliest  survey  on  the  society  from  which  it  stands  apart. 

But  this  isolation  deepened  that  loneliness  which  from 
youth  had  lain  upon  his  sensitive  and  gentle  nature.  At 
heart  he  was  a  true  lover  of  his  kind.  He  longed  for  ten- 
derness, for  communion.  Some  subtle  withdrawal,  some 
invincible  reserve,  held  him  as  if  in  a  crystal  prison, 
through  which  he  looked  with  yearning  eyes  to  the  fair 
forms  of  humanity,  on  which  his  hands  could  not  lay  hold. 
The  quotations  we  have  given  from  his  early  poem,  "  Sol- 
itude," show  something  of  the  perpetual  revulsion  from 
the  mind's  delight  in  its  visions  to  the  heart's  ache  in  its 
loneliness.  It  is  the  household  atmosphere  which  makes 
the  shrine  of  human  happiness.  From  its  warmth  he  was 
quite  apart,  —  from  the  clinging  hands  of  little  children, 
from  the  tender  cares  which  solace  while  they  task,  from 
the  pure  blessedness  with  which  husband  and  wife  look 
into  each  other's  eyes.  It  was  a  characteristic  completion 
of  his  isolation  that  he  had  not  the  society  of  animals,  — 
he  did  not  like  dogs.  One  wishes  for  him  in  his  solitary 


SOLITUDE.  149 

rambles  at  least  the  companionship  of  a  faithful  four- 
footed  friend,  to  break  in  upon  his  master's  reverie 
with  a  nose  thrust  lovingly  into  his  hand,  or  draw  a  smile 
to  the  abstracted  face  as  he  plunges  into  some  doggish 
delight  of  frolic  or  exploration.  The  winter  visits  to 
friends  there  were  indeed,  and  even  in  the  summer  some 
occasional  brief  companionship.  But  how  alone  the  man 
seems !  What  waste  of  a  heart  that  might  enrich  some 
other  !  What  starvation  of  a  nature  formed  for  the  full, 
glorious  estate  of  love  !  Can  Heaven  do  no  better  for  its 
creature  than  this  ? 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

APPROACHING  UNSEEN. 

IN  the  years  when  William  Smith  was  "  a  fair  yellow- 
haired  child,  with  great  black  eyes  full  of  the  new  joy 
and  wonder  of  life,"  another  child's  life  began.  A  young 
Scotch  physician  had  gone  into  Wales  to  push  his  for- 
tunes, and  there  found  a  wife.  She  was  of  an  old  Welsh 
family,  of  higher  social  station  than  his,  and  her  relatives 
were  slow  in  becoming  reconciled  to  her  marriage  with  a 
young  doctor  without  advantages  of  rank  or  wealth.  But 
he  had  the  force  of  brain  and  of  character  to  win  his  way 
in  the  world,  as  he  had  won  his  wife.  He  practised  his 
profession  for  some  years  in  Chester,  and  finally  settled  in 
Wales,  near  Denbigh,  in  a  lovely  home  which  was  named 
Dolhyfryd,  "  Happy  Valley."  Here  in  1818  Lucy  Caro- 
line Cumming  saw  the  light,  and  here  she  grew  to  woman- 
hood. A  sister  and  a  brother  completed  the  family,  of 
which  she  was  the  youngest. 

The  mother,  "  a  bright,  energetic,  delightful  woman," 
loved  in  later  years  to  talk  of  her  Lucy's  childhood.  The 
young  nature  began  early  to  show  its  quality,  —  swift, 
vivid,  and  ardent.  At  eighteen  months  the  child  could 
repeat  a  great  number  of  hymns,  and  at  two  years  she 
could  read  in  any  ordinary  book.  Before  she  was  ten, 
she  read  and  delighted  in  a  class  of  books  of  which  Mo- 
liere's  plays,  in  the  original,  is  mentioned  as  a  specimen. 
When  she  was  about  ten,  her  taste  ran  to  theological 
reading,  and  she  used  to  discuss  these  topics  with  a  friend 
of  her  own  age,  being  herself  a  staunch  Calvinist. 

But  this  sort  of  precocity  does  not  indicate  the  highest 


APPROACHING    UNSEEN.  151 

gifts  with  which  the  child  had  been  dowered,  as  if  by 
good  spirits,  at  her  birth.  One  might  fancy  that  the  mix- 
ture in  her  veins  of  Scotch  and  Welsh  blood  had  given 
her  all  the  intensity  and  tenacity  of  the  one,  —  the  per- 
ftrmdum  ingenium  Scotorum,  —  together  with  the  ardor 
and  spontaneity  of  the  more  southern  temperament.  Above 
all  she  was  rich  in  capacity  to  give  and  to  inspire  love,  —  a 
trait  involving  for  herself  possibilities  almost  unbounded 
of  joy  and  pain,  of  hope  and  fear  ;  while  for  others  it 
bore  throughout  her  life  an  unmixed  fruitage  of  blessing. 

Her  mother,  we  are  told,  used  to  talk  to  her  when  she 
was  a  mere  child  as  to  a  grown-up  person,  telling  her  all 
her  troubles  and  anxieties.  Every  one  loved  her,  and  her 
old  nurse  told  one  secret  of  the  charm  in  saying,  "  You 
can  come  so  near  Miss  Lucy  ! "  She  was  on  the  friend- 
liest terms  with  the  po.or  families  in  the  neighborhood ; 
and  it  is  related  that  in  one  of  these,  a  child  being  danger- 
ously ill,  and  she  having  known  of  it,  when  there  came 
sudden  relief  to  the  child  the  father's  first  words  were, 
"  Run  quick  and  tell  Miss  Lucy  !  " 

She  grew  up  into  most  attractive  maidenhood,  —  beau- 
tiful, brilliant,  a  young  Diana  in  her  spirit  and  her 
charms.  From  the  age  of  sixteen  she  was  the  object  of 
one  devoted  attachment  after  another.  But  the  heart 
was  not  lightly  to  be  won  in  its  stronghold.  The  ro- 
mances which  followed  each  other  did  not  touch  her  with 
their  flame,  not  though  she  was  sometimes  sought  with 
so  true  a  passion  that  two  men  who  failed  to  win  her 
vowed  to  be  faithful  to  her  memory  all  their  lives,  and 
never  married.  More  than  once  she  acknowledged  an  at- 
tachment, and  even  a  charm,  in  which  there  seemed  the 
promise  of  a  mutual  happiness,  but  always  the  tie 
snapped  instead  of  strengthening ;  something  proved  to 
be  wanting  that  her  fastidious  taste,  her  exacting  nature, 
required,  and  as  she  afterward  said,  "  In  those  days  I 
never  met  my  master" 


152  LUCY  SMITH. 

There  was  a  young  attendant  in  the  family  (whose 
father  was  in  Dr.  Cumming's  service),  a  year  younger 
than  Lucy,  and  this  Mrs.  Jane  Browne  has  written  down 
some  of  her  early  recollections :  — 

You  ask  me  how  long  I  remember  her.  It  is  from  my  ear- 
liest thoughts,  and  the  love  was  never  blighted.  I  am  sure  I 
can  remember  many  things  before  I  was  four  years  old.  I  can 
never  find  words  to  describe  how  beautiful  and  noble  and  good 
they  were  [the  mother  and  daughters].  Miss  Lucy  never  said 
anything  but  what  she  meant ;  and  how  clever  in  everything  — 
painting,  drawing,  music,  wax  flowers.  She  did  not  often  sing 
nor  play  the  harp,  but  Mrs.  Wrench  [the  sister]  did,  and  such  a 
beautiful  voice  !  Miss  Lucy  was  very  clever  in  making  experi- 
ments with  Dr.  Gumming,  and  gathered  many  fossils.  How 
pleased  I  was  to  be  waiting  on  them,  seeking  and  fetching  any- 
thing they  wanted.  I  have  now  a  small  work-box  she  gave  me 
when  I  was  about  eight  years  old.  '  She  gave  me  lessons  and 
heard  me  read  to  her.  I  used  to  do  their  hair,  and  assist  them 
to  dress,  and  I  never  remember  hearing  a  cross  word  from  her, 
and  if  any  one  else  did  she  always  sided  with  me  —  it  was  al- 
ways love  for  my  short-comings.  She  always  said,  "  I  wish  I 
had  Jane's  hair  "  — mine  then  curled  all  over,  and  I  could  not 
get  any  of  it  straight,  and  I  wished  I  had  hers,  which  was  beau- 
tiful and  worn  in  plaits.  My  dear  Mrs.  Gumming  used  to  enjoy 
hearing  what  was  passing  between  us.  Mrs.  Gumming  was  very 
charitable,  and  every  needy  one  had  only  to  apply  to  her  and 
was  never  sent  empty  away.  She  took  her  daughters  with  her 
to  visit  the  poor  and  sick,  and  I  was  an  interpreter  for  those 
who  could  not  speak  English.  I  can  remember  Miss  Lucy's 
learning  to  read  Welsh,  which  I  could  not  do  then,  that  she 
might  read  the  Bible  to  the  aged  and  the  sick.  What  a  power 
she  had  of  discerning  and  devising  everything  in  the  right  way  ! 
She  was  so  just  and  her  judgment  so  pure,  and  I  can  remember 
well  the  regard  and  reverence  that  was  shown  her  when  young 
in  years,  even  by  those  who  knew  no  respect  of  persons.  I 
never  could  discern  in  others  what  she  possessed,  nor  knew  any 
so  angel-like  or  so  handsome  as  they  both  were. 


APPROACHING    UNSEEN. 

Miss  Annie  Clough,  another  life-long  friend,  thus  pic- 
tures her  in  early  days :  — 

It  was  a  summer  evening,  and  I  had  come  from  a  busy  life 
in  Liverpool  to  pay  a  visit  to  Lucy  Gumming  hi  her  beautiful 
home  hi  the  country,  Dolhyfryd,  about  a  mile  from  Denbigh. 
I  found  her  hi  the  garden  with  her  mother  and  friends,  and  a 
favourite  dog.  She  came  forward  to  welcome  me,  and  make  me 
feel  at  home  after  my  long  journey.  The  long,  low  house,  half 
cottage,  half  mansion,  covered  with  creepers,  and  standing  on  a 
velvet  lawn  shaded  by  trees,  looked  very  inviting  and  sheltering 
in  the  June  sunshine.  It  lay  folded  round  by  hills  clothed 
with  lovely  woods,  a  stream  flowing  through  the  grounds  with 
a  murmuring,  soothing  sound.  *  After  a  while  we  walked  by  the 
stream  and  through  the  wood,  talking  of  many  things.  We 
were  both  young,  and  each  full  of  our  dreams  and  visions  of 
the  future.  Her  life  was  then  as  a  dream  of  joy  and  delight ; 
mine  was  full  of  toil  and  anxiety,  and  yet  the  dreams  were  not 
wanting.  Was  it  on  this  account  that  she  was  seeking  me  out 
as  a  friend,  and  trying  to  cheer  me  ?  We  were  so  different 
that  I  felt  half  perplexed  by  her  advances  of  friendship.  We 
had  been  acquainted  before,  and  she  knew  my  family  and  my 
brothers  very  well,  and  was  very  sympathetic  in  all  that  con- 
cerned me.  The  next  morning  was  partly  spent  in  the  drawing- 
room,  which  was  upstairs,  overlooking  the  lawn.  It  was  full 
of  curious  quaint  old  furniture,  a  great  collection  of  books,  many 
of  them  rare.  Mrs.  Gumming,  her  mother,  had  her  own  occu- 
pations, to  which  she  was  much  devoted.  Her  poultry  and  ani- 
mals took  up  her  time,  and  old  Betty,  the  head  servant  and 
factotum,  helped  with  the  housekeeping.  Dr.  Gumming,  the 
father,  who  was  a  philosopher  full  of  improvements  and  inven- 
tions, was  generally  in  his  study,  or  working  at  the  Denbigh 
Infirmary,  which  was  his  great  interest  and  occupation.  We 
had  many  walks  and  drives  about  the  neighbourhood.  Lucy's 
brightness,  intelligence,  and  great  interest  in  things  in  general 
gave  a  charm  to  our  intercourse,  but  I  still  wondered  why  she 
wanted  one  so  serious,  and  with  such  strict  views  of  life,  for 
a  companion.  But  we  parted  friends,  for  her  charm  and  her 
grace  had  won  me. 


154  LUCY  SMITH. 

Afterwards  I  met  her  in  Chester.  To  this  ancient  city 
Lucy  often  went,  and  attended  with  friends  at  the  balls,  which 
in  those  days  were  resorted  to  by  the  county  families  about 
Chester ;  Lucy  belonged  by  her  mother's  side  to  these  families. 
I  have  seen  her  full  of  enjoyment  and  brightness,  but  sometimes 
her  heart  was  not  satisfied  —  still  she  was  ever  a  bright  orna- 
ment to  the  scene. 

She  was  above  the  middle  height,  slender,  and  "  car- 
ried herself  like  a  queen."  Her  walk  had  a  swan-like 
stateliness;  and  together  with  this  dignity  there  was  a 
sweetness  and  sympathy  that  made  the  shyest  and  most 
awkward  person  instantly  at  home  with  her.  Yet  her 
amiability  was  by  no  means  indiscriminate,  and  she  could 
be  haughty  and  icily  cold  in  manner.  Her  head  was  small 
and  beautifully  shaped,  and  she  wore  her  masses  of  dark 
hair  coiled  around  it.  Her  face  was  delicately  oval ;  the 
eyes  dark  gray,  large,  and  intent.  Her  skin  was  very 
fair,  and  creamy  white ;  the  lips  straight,  thin,  and  firm, 
the  teeth  very  white  and  even ;  a  rather  pointed  little 
chin.  "  But  no  words  can  convey  the  charm  of  her  face, 
the  sparkle  and  brilliancy  and  bewitchingness  of  it." 

A  life-long  friend,  afterward  Mrs.  Ruck,  thus  describes 
her  in  early  years  :  — 

I  shrink  from  writing  about  her,  because  it  is  like  an  at- 
tempt to  perpetuate  the  beauty  of  a  lovely  flower,  to  paint  the 
glories  of  a  sunset,  or  to  describe  the  subtle  essence  of  some 
delicious  odour.  She  knew  how  to  run  the  gamut  of  feeling 
from  grave  to  gay  in  such  a  way  that  one  almost  laughed  and 
cried  at  the  same  time.  In  the  early  days  of  our  friendship 
she  was  very  orthodox  in  faith,  and  clung  to  the  evangelical 
teaching  of  her  youth.  We  had  many  a  discussion  on  those 
points,  because  no  one  had  ever  been  able  to  persuade  me  of 
the  existence  of  a  devil,  or  the  truth  of  everlasting  punishment. 
She  knew  the  Bible  almost  by  heart,  and  has  told  me  that  she 
acquired  this  knowledge  by  reading  it  for  hours  in  a  cave  by 
the  seaside  when  she  was  a  child.  Her  marvellous  gift  of  mem- 


APPROACHING    UNSEEN.  155 

ory  made  everything  that  she  had  read  hers  forever.  Armed 
as  she  was  with  such  a  weapon,  I  fared  badly  in  debate,  but 
her  kind  heart  found  some  way  of  reconciling  her  to  my  errors, 
and  our  differences  of  opinion  never  in  the  least  estranged  us. 
As  an  instance  of  her  powers  of  memory,  I  may  mention  that  I 
have  known  her,  after  listening  to  a  French  sermon  by  Pastor 
Rousel,  go  home  and  write  it  out ;  it  was  afterward  shown  to 
its  author,  who  pronounced  it  to  be  verbatim  what  he  had  said, 
with  the  transposition  of  one  sentence.  Her  love  of  animals 
was  very  great,  and  they  responded  to  it  in  the  same  way 
that  human  beings  did.  I  used  to  listen  with  amaze  to  the 
many  things  she  had  to  say  to  dogs,  and  I  have  seen  her  flush 
with  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  one.  To  her  everybody  brought 
their  sorrows  and  perplexities,  well  knowing  they  came  to  an 
inexhaustible  fountain  of  sympathy.  To  one  so  gifted  there 
came  many  lovers,  and  these  when  rejected  always  turned  into 
friends. 

Here  is  a  letter,  written  when  she  was  twenty-nine,  to 
another  life-long  friend  :  — 

DOLHYFRYD,  1847. 

MY  DARLING  MARY,  —  I  cannot,  you  must  feel  that  I 
cannot,  tell  you  how  I  grieve  to  find  that  you  are  suffer- 
ing from  delicacy  which  affects  the  spirits  through  the 
health.  And  yet  I  don't  know  that  I  quite  attribute  the 
depression  you  speak  of  to  physical  causes.  And  I  do 
know  that  of  all  explanation  it  is  the  most  unsatisfactory 
to  the  one  who  suffers.  Dear  Mary,  of  course  I  cannot 
expect  you  to  leave  your  kind  aunt's  care  for  that  of  other 
friends  whose  power  of  making  you  comfortable  would  be 
less,  only  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  when  you  are  better 

you  may  still  fulfil  your  promise  to  the  Miss  L s,  and 

I  cling  to  the  hope  this  gives  us  also.  You  who  want 
complete  rest,  to  bathe  your  very  soul  in  silence  and  quiet, 
after  all  the  excitement  and  long-sustained  effort  through 
which  you,  my  precious  one,  have  passed  —  where  could 
you  find  such  quiet  more  absolute  than  here  ?  in  this  lit- 
tle green  nest  where  all  day  long  you  would  have  undis- 


156  LUCY  SMITH. 

turbed  the  companionship  of  your  books  and  thoughts, 
and  mine  should  be  negative  or  positive  as  you  wished  it. 
I  would  be  a  loving  presence,  darling,  not  a  talking  com- 
panion. And  then,  am  I  mistaken  in  thinking  that  I  un- 
derstand you  and  your  complex  sadness  better  than  the 
happier,  perhaps  more  healthful,  natures  around  you  do  ? 
I  experimentally  know  (and  what  avails  knowledge  to  us 
unless  distilled  from  our  own  heart's  blood  ?)  that  depres- 
sion may  be  vague  and  yet  most  real.  I  know  the  mood 
in  which  all  earth's  good  and  glad  things  come  before  the 
frightened  spirit  as  temptations,  and  earth's  sorrows  as 
despair.  And  I  know  that  all  this  may  be  clouding  the 
life  within  while  droll  words  are  on  the  lip,  and  the  smile 
caught  from  others'  laughter  is  bright  and  ready.  The 
sense  of  unreality,  uselessness  in  the  past,  weakened  ener- 
gies and  limited  scope  for  the  future  —  of  the  flowers  of 
one's  nature  dropped  faded  and  scentless  away,  and  the 
branches  reft  of  their  summer  beauty  and  in  autumn  bear- 
ing no  fruit.  I  do  not  expect  this  to  seem  to  you  rhap- 
sody—  artificial,  exaggerated.  It  is  one  thing  to  know 
all  this  from  one's  own  consciousness,  and  another  to  fos- 
ter the  feeling  and  to  yield  to  its  dominion.  And  I  do 
think,  darling  Mary,  that  for  you  this  cloud  will  be  most 
transient,  leaving  no  token  but  the  rainbow  glory  and  the 
refreshed  and  livelier  growth  of  all  fair  and  lovely  things 
within  you.  I  have  always  the  same  bright  anticipation 
of  the  return  of  one  to  whom  years  can  work  no  change 
in  you.  I  have  not  forgotten  the  pretty  playful  allusion 
you  mentioned  in  one  of  your  dear  letters  some  time 
ago.  Your  image  is  as  engrossing  as  it  ever  was,  and 
I  feel  a  sort  of  conviction  that  so  much  true  devotion 
is  not  to  be  wasted.  And  it  was  more  with  reference  to 
this  than  to  any  future  conquests  or  present  admiration 
that  I  so  much  rejoiced  to  hear  from  all  that  you  were 
looking  so  lovely.  I  fear  illness  must  now  (at  least  to 
your  own  view)  have  altered  you  for  the  present,  but  that 


APPROACHING    UNSEEN.  157 

is  nothing.  Dear  Mary,  though  there  is  but  a  fortnight's 
difference  in  our  ages,  still  I  cannot  in  your  case  realize 
that  at  twenty-nine  youth  is  fled  from  you.  Early  youth, 
of  course,  but  still  enough  of  youth  and  its  graces  remains 
to  give  fascination  to  wit  and  brilliancy,  and  irresistible 
charm  to  a  frank  kindness  of  manner  in  virtue  of  which 
all  hearts  are  yours  that  you  like  to  claim.  You  know  1 
speak  now  hardly  as  I  should  of  you  to  others  —  that  I 
say  less  than  I  mean  —  and  you  are  above  pretending  to 
think  this  flattery.  There  is  one  point  which  I  am  not 
able  by  my  own  experience  to  speak  of,  and  perhaps  I 
shall  disappoint  you  by  my  opinion  of  the  value  of  the 
intellectual  excellence  to  which  you  look  back  as  to  that 
which  might  have  been  and  is  not  now  your  own.  I  think, 
dearest,  that  your  time  has  been  far  better  employed  in 
making  all  around  you  happy,  in  writing  long  letters  to 
friends  who  warmly  welcomed  them  and  counted  their 
pages,  in  working  when  others  worked,  joining  readily  in 
the  aimless  (it  may  be)  talk  of  morning  visitors  —  than 
it  would  have  been  in  concentrated  pursuit  of  any  accom- 
plishment, any  science.  What  can  a  woman  do,  even  if 
mental  culture  be  brought  to  the  highest  pitch  ?  Are 
there  twelve  authoresses  of  the  present  day  whose  fame 
you  would  care  to  have  ?  Or  if,  pursuing  the  studies  that 
attracted  your  girlish  taste,  you  had  astronomy  and  his- 
tory at  your  fingers'  ends,  do  you  think  you  would  be  a 
more  delightful  companion  than  you  are  now,  with  your 
ready  intuition,  your  love  of  knowledge,  your  facility  of 
expression  ?  I  believe  you  would  have  lost  by  the  process. 
To  regret  that  in  the  years  gone  by  we  have  done  so  little 
toward  enlisting  habit  on  the  side  of  good,  our  real  good, 
—  on  the  side  of  religious  duties,  self-denying  impulses  — 
that  I  can  enter  into,  though  I  have  no  reason  to  believe 
that  you  have  failed  in  this  as  I  have  done.  After  all, 
dear  Mary,  is  it  not  well  that  something  should  teach  us 
that  "  this  is  not  our  rest  "  ?  That  we  should  "  begin  to 


158  LUCY  SMITH. 

be  in  want,"  that  so  we  may  arise  and  return  to  One  who 
will  see  us  "  a  great  way  off  "  —  that  our  immortal  na- 
tures are  not  contented  with  the  mortal  and  the  finite? 
This  yearning  for  something  better,  something  more  real, 
something  that  we  can  grasp  and  make  our  own  —  I  think 
that  though  it  may  sadden  us  a  while,  it  is  the  dark  hour 
before  day,  the  promise  of  an  expansion  of  our  usefulness, 
and  the  earnest  of  things  to  come.  I  know  something  of 
your  wish  for  change  of  scene,  but  I  have  not  a  hope  of  it 
for  myself.  I  know  more  of  your  wish  for  some  engrossing 
study,  but  then  indolence  is  always  fighting  pitched  bat- 
tles with  this  wish,  and  nine  times  out  of  ten  it  comes  off 
victorious.  Have  you  a  thirst  for  metaphysics  ?  I  do  not 
say  this  to  many,  for  I  can  imagine  the  laughter  it  would 
provoke.  But  in  Novalis  and  Fichte's  Idealism,  I  think 
one  would  so  rest  one's  mind  from  the  cares  and  annoyances 
of  the  actual,  the  things  seen  and  temporal,  which  like  the 
fogs  of  our  climate  hide  all  the  sky  and  make  even  the 
earth  dull  and  dismal.  How  nice  to  read  those  books 
together,  to  compare  notes  —  we,  friends  for  so  many 
years,  and  I  think  understanding  each  other  better  and 
loving  each  other  more  on  every  birthday !  With  me  it 
is  so. 

To  this  same  friend  —  for  whom  her  prediction  of  hap- 
piness was  amply  fulfilled  —  these  verses  were  sent  two 
years  later.  They  were  published  in  "  Good  Words  "  in 
1861. 

NEW   YEAR   WISHES. 

Good  New  Year  wishes  for  my  friends  ! 

Good  New  Year  wishes  truly  ! 
I  feel  my  heart  beat  high  with  these, 

Yet  cannot  speak  them  duly. 
The  very  phrases  others  use 

Half  jar  upon  my  ear  ; 
They  seem  to  miss  my  inmost  thought 

Of  blended  hope  and  fear. 


APPROACHING    UNSEEN.  159 

"  A  happy  year,  with  many  more 

To  follow  in  its  train  !  " 
So  runs  the  hackneyed  form,  as  though 

Long  life  to  all  were  gain  ! 
As  though  bright  suns  had  only  power 

To  colour,  not  to  fade  ! 
As  though  no  growth  of  human  flower 

Were  fairest  in  the  shade  ! 

My  many  friends,  I  dare  not  breathe 

A  common  wish  for  all ! 
A  honeyed  thought  to  you  or  you 

To  others  were  but  gall. 
So  different  the  heart  withinj 

The  outward  life  around, 
You  scarcely  see  the  self -same  sky, 

Or  tread  the  self -same  ground. 

There  are  who  wake  from  troubled  sleep, 

This  birthday  of  the  year, 
To  feel  their  anguish  but  renewed 

By  sounds  of  general  cheer  :  — 
Some  voice  is  still  that  greeted  them 

On  last  year's  opening  day  — 
Some  eyes  that  dwelt  on  theirs  with  love 

In  earth  are  put  away. 

Last  year  had  days  and  nights  that  passed 

In  sorrow  soothed  by  sharing  ; 
Now  there  is  none  to  soothe  and  bless 

By  calm  and  cheerful  bearing  ! 
Their  eyes  may  weep  in  dimness  now  ; 

No  further  need  for  hiding  ! 
Of  smiling  back  their  loving  flow, 

For  fear  of  loving  chiding. 

There  are,  to  whom  a  cup  of  joy 

So  foaming  o'er  is  given, 
It  seems  too  full  for  Life  to  drain  — 

It  seems  as  Earth  were  Heaven  ! 
They  fain  would  fling  their  weight  of  bliss 

On  Time's  too  rapid  flying,  — 
Stretch  the  glad  moments  into  years, 

And  stay  the  years  from  dying  ! 


160  LUCY  SMITH. 

There  are  whom  still  the  Future  lures 

From  present  pastures  fair, 
With  promise  of  a  fuller  life, 

With  whispered  "  Then  !  "  and  «  There  ! " 
Their  hope-lit  "Now"  seems  cold  and  slow, 

They  pray  to  Time,  "Speed  fleeter  ! 
Set,  summer  suns  !  pass,  tranquil  hours  ! 

And  make  our  bliss  completer  ! " 

And  there  are  others,  who  foresee 

Throughout  the  coming  year, 
No  rainbow  in  their  leaden  sky, 

No  special  hope  or  fear  :  — 
Their  morrows  tell  the  tale  inscribed 

On  yesterday's  dull  page  ; 
No  wayside  flower  to  mark  the  path 

That  leads  from  youth  to  age. 

My  many  friends,  how  should  I  find 

A  wish  ye  all  might  share  ? 
I  dare  not  utter  one  at  all,  — 

Or  only  as  a  prayer  — 
That  He  who  knows  each  spirit's  wants 

Beyond  my  love  to  read, 
May  mould  my  wishes  to  His  will, 

And  crown  them  thus  indeed  :  — 

May  give  the  lonely  —  patient  hearts 

The  weight  of  Life  to  bear  ; 
May  nerve  the  loving  and  beloved 

The  thought  of  Death  to  dare  !  — 
Before  you  all  One  Presence  go, 

To  guard  and  guide  you  right  ; 
To  some,  the  pillared  cloud  by  day, 

To  others,  light  by  night ! 

When  she  was  about  in  her  thirty-sixth  year,  a  sharp 
change  came  to  the  family  life.  The  father  was  equally 
generous  and  unbusinesslike,  and  the  mother  too  had  a 
large  and  liberal  disposition,  without  much  appreciation  of 
the  value  of  money ;  the  household  went  on  in  a  free  and 
open-handed  way  and  thus  it  happened  that  Dr.  Cum- 


APPROACHING    UNSEEN.  161 

ming's  affairs  at  last  became  very  much  involved.  Lucy 
had  hitherto  hardly  known  how  things  stood,  but  now  she 
was  called  into  council.  When  she  learned  the  state  of 
the  case,  her  mind  was  soon  made  up.  Everything  must 
be  sold  that  could  be  sold ;  her  own  portion  must  be  given 
up ;  nothing  could  be  kept  back  so  long  as  a  single  bill 
remained  unpaid.  And  so  it  was  done.  The  lovely  home 
was  given  up  to  strangers ;  most  of  its  pretty  and  refined 
adornments,  the  wife's  diamonds,  the  old  books  and  pic- 
tures, were  sold.  Then,  in  1854,  they  moved  to  Edin- 
burgh, and  there,  on  an  extremely  small  income,  Lucy  set 
to  work  to  make  a  home  amongst  strangers.  The  art 
of  economy  was  wholly  new  to  her.  The  narrow  rooms 
were  made  to  look  graceful  and  home-like  with  a  few 
furnishings  that  had  been  saved  from  the  wreck.  She 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  making  occasional  translations 
from  the  French  and  German,  for  her  own  amusement; 
now  she  turned  this  faculty  to  account  and  earned  a  little 
money  by  it.  She  met  with  the  kindest  of  helpers  in  Mr. 
Thomas  Constable,  who  found  work  for  her  among  the 
publishers.  She  sometimes  wrote  tales  for  "  Chambers' 
Journal,"  but  she  had  no  complacency  or  pride  in  original 
work ;  it  was  only,  she  said,  "  to  turn  an  honest  penny  " 
that  she  ever  did  it.  She  did  not  care  enough  for  her 
stories  and  verses  to  keep  a  copy  of  them,  nor  did  she 
even  keep  copies  of  her  translations,  though  this  work  she 
enjoyed.  "  Debit  and  Credit "  (Freytag's  Soil  und  Ha- 
ben)  was  one  of  her  translations,  and  the  rendering  of 
Victor  Hugo's  poems  into  English  was  a  delight  to  her. 
In  Edinburgh  new  friends  soon  became  devoted  to  her, 
including  some  for  whom  she  had  a  very  warm  affection 
and  admiration  through  life. 

But  there  were  trials  harder  than  those  of  straitened 
means.  Her  father  had  become  entirely  and  hopelessly 
blind.  Her  mother  —  between  whom  and  Lucy  the  tie 
was  always  peculiarly  strong  and  dear  —  was  now  an 


162  LUCY  SMITH. 

almost  helpless  invalid,  with  chronic  and  deep  depression. 
To  the  care  of  them  the  daughter  devoted  herself  with 
her  whole  heart.  She  read  to  her  father ;  did  all  in  her 
power  to  relieve  and  cheer  her  mother,  from  whom  she 
could  never  now  win  a  smile,  so  grievous  was  the  gloom 
which  the  body's  failure  had  irflicted;  husbanded  their 
little  income,  and  increased  it  as  she  could  by  work  for 
the  booksellers. 

The  family  now  included  a  young  grand-daughter,  whose 
father  (the  husband  of  Lucy's  sister)  had  received  a  for- 
eign appointment,  whither  he  went  alone,  so  that  their 
home  too  was  broken  up.  This  little  girl,  Mary  Wrench, 
was  always  most  fondly  attached  to  her  aunt  Lucy,  and 
now  for  several  years  was  for  the  most  part  in  the  same 
household  with  her.  It  is  to  her  recollections,  and  to  the 
life-long  and  intimate  correspondence  between  them,  that 
we  owe  many  of  the  most  graphic  traits  in  this  volume. 
She  says :  — 

My  aunt  was  always  my  ideal,  —  she  always  seemed  to  me 
the  most  beautiful  and  the  most  infallible  person  possible.  She 
had  a  way  of  illuminating  everything  she  spoke  of,  and  making 
it  interesting,  and  even  to  a  child  she  would  give  of  her  best  and 
spare  no  trouble.  I  never  cared  then  for  friends  of  my  own 
age,  thinking  them  so  dull  compared  to  what  I  was  used  to ! 
And  she  made  a  great  companion  of  me,  —  she  had  so  large 
and  generous  and  confiding  a  nature  that  she  could  not  live  with 
any  one  without  sharing  her  interests.  She  used  to  rely  on  one's 
discretion,  and  made  one  feel  it  a  crime  to  repeat  anything  that 
could  give  pain  or  make  mischief. 

How  she  strove  to  make  ends  meet  in  those  days,  and  how 
hard  the  restrictions  of  small  means  must  have  been  to  her  gen- 
erous nature  !  She  so  loved  giving  and  helping,  and  wanted  noth- 
ing for  herself.  And  all  she  gave  or  did  was  done  in  a  royal, 
ungrudging  way.  She  loved  to  share  all  she  could  with  others, 
—  if  she  had  not  money  to  share,  it  was  her  time,  her  interest, 
her  affections,  which  she  gave  with  all  her  heart  and  at  once. 
She  was  a  most  loyal  friend,  and  she  bound  her  friends  together, 


APPROACHING    UNSEEN.  163 

interesting  each  one  in  the  other,  and  though  amongst  such  a 
large  band  of  friends  as  she  had  there  were  those  of  totally 
different  ways  of  thinking,  she  had  a  marvellous  way  of  fusing 
them,  and  making  each  seem  attractive  to  the  other. 

The  letters  to  Mr.  Thomas  Constable  yield  some  vivid 
glimpses  of  her  life  at  this  period. 

(1855.)  It  is  very  seldom  that  a  delay  prefaces  a  JVb, 
but  do  not,  and  do  not  let  Mrs.  Constable,  think  me 
ungracious  because  I  return  to  my  original  decision.  I 
know  that  I  am  losing  a  very  pleasant  evening  spent  with 
my  kind  friends,  but  though  my  dear  mother  could  not 
bear  to  lose  me  my  enjoyment,  and  I  am  sure  believes 
that  she  wishes  me  to  go,  yet  I  could  observe  a  shadow 
upon  her  dear  face  when  I  went  down  with  my  much 
shaken  resolve.  And  this  very  evening,  when  calling 
upon  nice  kind  people,  I  was  warmly  invited  to  spend  an 
evening  —  evenings  —  to  which  I  replied  that  I  never 
meant  to  go  out.  We  do  not  do  anything  very  well,  nurs- 
ing included,  without  giving  ourselves  wholly  to  it.  Nat- 
urally I  was  only  too  fond  of  society  ;  and  in  short,  it  is 
best  so  —  and  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  both  for 
wishing  to  give  me  pleasure. 

(1855.)  Herewith  comes  to  torment  you  Mr. 's 

manuscript.  The  Messrs.  Chambers  must  be  made  aware 
that  if  they  lose  it  'tis  as  much  as  the  writer's  life  is 
worth.  I  send  you  his  innocent  letter.  Ah,  how  our 
small  doings  and  small  thinkings  dilate  when  we  look  at 
them  long,  at  them  only.  And  how  they  shrink  when  we 

compare  them  with  those  of  others.  But  good  Mr. 

in  his  glen  ponders  his  hobby  till  the  hills  are  filled  with 
the  shadow  of  it.  But  what  were  life  without  our  hob- 
bies ?  I  am  very  tender  of  illusions,  and  your  better  na- 
ture is  tender  of  all  things. 

(1856.)  I  have  got  quite  fond  of  Allonby.  My 
mother  prefers  it  to  any  place  we  have  yet  been  at. 


164  LUCY  SMITH. 

There  is  not  a  smart  bonnet  or  hat  to  be  seen  far  or  near, 
and  that  is  the  perfection  of  a  bathing-place  in  her  eyes. 
Oh,  I  shall  be  so  sorry  to  take  her  back  to  her  prison ! 
But  what  can  be  done  ?  My  father  would  be  so  wretched 
in  the  country.  This  long,  long  holiday  has  been  of  great 
use  to  her,  and  we  must  be  thankful  for  its  repose  and  en- 
joyment. It  could  not  have  been  so  long,  nor  could  that 
of  last  year  have  been  taken,  but  for  my  translations.  I 
know  that  this  will  be  a  pleasure  to  you  to  hear,  and  you 
do  not  wonder  at  my  having  so  earnestly  longed  for  and 
so  gratefully  received  the  pleasant  work.  ...  I  have 
been  expecting  proofs  to-day,  but  none  appear.  Some- 
body I  hope  revises  them  after  me,  but  I  do  not  trust  to 
any  one  doing  so,  instead  of  me,  owing  to  the  prejudice 
that  exists  against  my  handwriting  as  illegible,  which 
might  prevent  an  efficient  comparison  of  proof  and  MS.  by 
any  one  else.  There  was  a  long  sentence  about  "  For- 
gram  "  (the  words  were  "  for  years  "),  and  the  printer,  to 
make  it  all  fit  in  with  his  preconceived  notions,  had  al- 
tered "  which  "  to  "  who,"  and  made  quite  a  consistent 
passage,  with  "  Forgram  "  for  its  hero.  At  first  I  thought 
he  must  be  some  German  author,  and  wondered  I  had  for- 
gotten his  name ! 

(Undated.)  Last  night  I  heard  Thackeray.  The  per- 
fect nature,  the  self-possession,  the  entire  freedom  from 
effort  or  self-consciousness  of  any  kind,  and  the  musical 
voice  were  all  so  fascinating  I  could  have  sat  there  till 
midnight.  Yet  how  slight  these  lectures  are !  *  A  mere 
pleasant  telling  of  what  every  one  knew.  And  how  sad 
and  hollow  the  heart  feels  when  he  has  in  his  cold,  impar- 
tial *way  praised  the  worst  characters,  given  the  devil  his 
due,  in  short,  and  brought  into  strong  relief  the  failings  of 
the  best.  I  can't  define  the  impression  he  made  upon  me. 
Yet  surely  all  who  heard  must  have  left  the  room  utter- 
ing from  their  hearts'  depths  the  old  expression,  "  Vanity 
of  vanities,  all  is  vanity  !  " 

1  The  lectures  on  the  Four  Georges. 


APPROACHING    UNSEEN.  1G5 

(1856.)  Will  you  think  me  odiously  egotistical  for 
sending  you  this  scrap  just  when  you  are  setting  out  and 
have  your  hands  so  full  ?  I  want  your  kind  sympathy  for 
two  minutes,  that  is  all.  No  one  knows  how  much  hope 
they  have  of  anything  till  the  hope  be  taken  away.  I 
thought  myself  prepared  for  this,  yet  had  I  been  so  I 
should  not  have  that  serrement  de  coeur  which  in  my  case 
won't  bring  a  tear,  but  which  makes  me  wish  for  them. 
Well,  these  small  things  too  are  all  ordered  for  us.  How 
my  paths  have  been  hedged  up  ever  since  I  could  walk 
alone  !  How  many  fair  prospects  I  have  seen  shut  out ! 
The  hope  of  work  which  had  replaced  the  hope  of  happi- 
ness must  be  given  up,  like  it.  I  am  sure  it  was  not  ill 
done  —  yet  had  they  thought  it  well  done  they  would  have 
qualified  the  refusal  by  some  nice  courteous  fayon  de  par- 
ler.  However,  though  this  be  a  heavier  trial  than  you  can 
guess,  you  will  like  to  know  that  I  am  quite  sure  it  is  all 
right,  and  part  of  the  discipline  to  which  I  desire  to  com- 
mit myself  —  for  oh,  how  I  need  discipline  as  well  as  de- 
liverance ! 

(1856.)  Very  soon  you  will  be  out  of  all  reach,  but 
while  still  in  Thistle  St.  1  will  make  my  appearance 
every  now  and  then  and  insist  upon  a  hearing.  I  want  to 

know  whether is  going  with  you.  How  charming  to 

escape  a  little  from  that  stormy  wife  of  his.  Now  does 
not  that  give  you  a  shudder  ?  "  Good  heavens  !  Did  I 
ever  tell  that  indiscreet  woman  of  my  dear  friend's  home 
cross  ?  Perhaps  she  has  told  half  a  dozen  people."  No 
such  thing.  I  am  discreetly  indiscreet,  and  a  safe  repos- 
itory for  many  a  secret.  .  .  .  My  tale  was  but  a  short 
affair,  and  my  sister  having  read  it  decides  that  it  is  too 
true  to  life,  too  simply  and  undisguisedly  portraiture,  to 
be  even  offered  to  any  magazine.  'T  is  but  a  little  thing, 
and  I  believe  I  shall  tear  it  up.  "  Household  Words  " 
would  reject  it  as  too  religious  in  tone  at  all  events.  But 
I  am  sure  it  has  no  merit,  no  piquancy,  no  plot,  and  I 


166  LUCY  SMITH. 

know  now  what  I  always  believed,  that  I  have  no  talent 
for  fiction. 

(Undated.)  Mr.  Constable,  dear  Mr.  Constable,  you 
are  really  vexed  with  me  ?  Oh,  how  I  shall  hate  all  books, 
all  miscellanies,  translations,  and  literature,  if  you  take  a 
dislike  to  me,  and  quarrel  with  me !  What  if  I  said  I 
liked  you  a  little  less  because  you  had  said  this  or  that  ? 
I  like  you  so  much,  I  value  your  friendship  and  kindly 
interest  so  much !  You  will  not  withdraw  them  ?  You 
see  it 's  all  so  new  to  me.  And  I  dare  say  I  am  foolishly 
sensitive,  proud,  vain.  But  never  mind,  please  !  After 
all,  what  did  I  say  ?  That  you  had  been  fickle  about  the 
poor  dear  book  —  which  I  wish  I  had  never  seen !  Why, 
you  are  mortal  —  you  must  have  faults.  I  don't  know 
what  they  can  be,  if  you  were  not  fickle  about  that  book. 
I  hold  to  that  point !  You  know  't  is  an  admitted  fact 
that  no  one  is  faultless.  Pray,  pray,  don't  write  me  as  if 
seriously  vexed !  I  say  a  good  deal  in  half -play,  and  I 
never  thought  you  would  have  taken  my  note  as  really 
meaning  any  more  than  it  did.  You  will  not  dislike  me  ? 
I  have  so  much  to  sadden  me.  I  have  been  doing  Perthes, 
and  oh,  if  it  will  but  do !  Will  you  not  come  and  see  me, 
and  let  me  read  it  you  some  day  soon  ?  You  and  Mr. 
Gordon  made  me  a  very  kind  offer,  I  know.  And  if  you 
don't  come  soon  and  tell  me  you  are  not  vexed,  I  '11  accept 
it,  write  a  true  fiction,  and  you  shall  lose  horribly  by  me. 

For  the  sake  of  a  familiar  picture  of  the  Edinburgh  life 
from  her  own  pen,  we  may  here  run  a  little  ahead  of  our 
story,  and  give  a  letter  to  her  niece  written  in  the  autumn 
of  1857.  She  had  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  the  west 
of  Ireland,  in  which  the  mother's  health  and  spirits  had 
greatly  improved. 

I  have  really  longed  to  write  to  you  for  the  last  fort- 
night, especially  since  our  arrival  in  these  familiar  quar- 


APPROACHING    UNSEEN.  167 

ters,  but  I  have  been  too  busy  to  sit  down  for  half  an 
hour.  I  thought  you  would  be  disappointed  rather  than 
pleased  by  a  short  letter.  First  of  all,  let  me  commend 
your  unassisted  and  successful  packing  efforts.  The 
Gran's  best  bonnet  has  emerged  unscathed  from  its  prison, 
and  things  in  general  "  turn  up  smiling."  The  unpacking 
is  no  light  undertaking,  with  the  arrangement,  into  one 
chest  of  drawers,  of  what  we  need  for  winter  wear,  and 
the  shutting  up  in  boxes  of  what  we  do  not  need.  I  have 
not  yet  emptied  all  our  packages,  but  I  think  I  shall  go 
to  sleep  to-night  with  a  sense  that  a  place  has  been  found 
for  everything,  and  that  everything  is  in  its  place.  My 
dear,  order  is  essential  to  happiness,  and  happiness  is 
essential  to  good  nature,  which  makes  the  happiness  of 
others,  and  so  let  you  and  me  try  hard  to  keep  our  drawers 
neat.  To  both  an  irksome  task,  but  to  you  far  easier 
because  no  fatal  habits  have  coiled  with  strong  hold  round 
your  young  nature.  Habits,  however,  are  coiling,  day  by 
day,  and  I  rejoice  to  believe  that  you  are  really  desirous 
they  should  be  good  habits. 

Perhaps  your  Gran  told  you  that  at  Carlisle  I  had  so 
overpowering  a  headache,  and  was  so  violently  sick,  that 
to  proceed  was  out  of  the  question.  It  was  the  second 
sick  headache  I  have  had  in  my  life-time,  and  when  I  think 
how  often  your  poor  dear  mamma  suffers  from  these  pros- 
trating attacks,  I  do  feel  as  if  one  could  never  sympathize 
enough  with  her  on  that  score.  Was  it  not  charming  to 
save  by  our  avoidance  of  the  cruel  express,  by  which  your 
G.  P.  [grand  per  e]  whirled  off,  more  than  enough  to 
cover  our  delightful  beds  and  good  breakfast  at  that 
pleasant  County  Hotel  which  you  well  remember?  The 
following  morning  we  went  to  the  cathedral,  which  is 
beautiful,  but  far  less  so  than  Chester ;  were  in  time  for 
the  service,  and  then  prowled  in  the  market-place,  where 
a  charming  second-hand  bird-cage  was  sought ;  and  looked 
into  shops,  where  Gran  had  to  be  forcibly  withheld  from 


168  LUCY  SMITH. 

buying  ine  gloves  and  a  new  brush,  and  where  she  invested 
in  a  few  pins  and  needles,  firmly  persuaded  they  were 
better  than  in  Edinburgh !  We  had  no  fellow-travellers 
to  or  from  Carlisle,  and  at  half -past  eight  our  cabs — Mary, 
luggage,  and  Poll  in  one,  we  in  the  other  —  stopped  at  No. 
1,  and  Irish  Mary  came  out  to  meet  us.  Oh,  my  child, 
what  an  awkward  giantess  it  is !  How  she  can  ever  be 
made  to  look  neat  or  taught  the  proprieties  of  waiting- 
maid  life  I  do  not  know.  My  heart  sometimes  sinks,  I 
confess,  but  Gran  is  full  of  hope,  and  rejoices  in  her 
Hibernians.  Biddy,  nice  old  soul,  bore  her  journey 
admirably ;  they  actually  stumbled  upon  a  Bundoran  man 
in  Glasgow,  and  in  short  nothing  could  be  more  pro- 
pitious than  their  journey  hither.  Our  room  looked  very 
nice  and  comfortable,  and  Gran  at  once  declared  herself 
reconciled  to  No.  1.  The  following  morning  she  was  up 
with  the  dawn,  intent  upon  going  out  to  buy  a  cage  for 
Poll,  who  was  fast  pulling  his  travelling  van  to  pieces. 
So  we  were  dressed  and  ready  to  set  out  before  ten,  when 
dear  Mr.  Constable  arrived.  In  his  kind  welcome,  he 
first  took  both  my  hands,  patted  me  on  the  back,  and 
finally  kissed  me,  which  seemed  quite  natural.  I  declare ! 
He  could  not  stay  long,  but  he  asked  me  to  dine  there  on 
Monday,  to  meet  three  clever  men,  without  their  wives, 
Mrs.  Constable  and  I  to  be  the  only  ladies.  I  told  him 
he  would  spoil  his  party,  for  men  discuss  all  subjects  more 
freely  together,  and  generally  feel  themselves  obliged  to 

talk  down  to  women,  as  that  odious  K talked  down 

to  the  children,  you  remember.  I  'm  not  sure  I  shall  go. 
I  should  like  to  listen  unseen,  but  I  should  be  too  conscious 
we  were  spoiling  their  enjoyment  to  derive  any  myself. 

You  should  have  seen  your  Gran  in  the  bird-shop!  The 
man  there  was  after  her  own  heart,  and  so  were  his  feath- 
ered family.  A  large  black  cat  strolled  in,  and  he  told  us 
that  Charlie  — such  is  the  pleasing  fellow's  name  —  is  left 
with  the  birds  day  and  night,  na}%  that  he  will  go  and 


APPROACHING   UNSEEN.  169 

catch  a  mouse  in  their  cages  without  touching  a  bird. 
Before  he  came  to  this  sense  of  duty,  however,  he  ate  about 
five  pounds'  worth,  and  had  many  and  severe  burnings  of 
the  nose  and  other  chastisements.  Your  aunt  was  thrown 
into  a  moralizing  vein  by  this  singular  fact,  and  could  not 
but  think  how  little  we  should  dare  to  plead  temperament 
in  excuse  for  sin  when  even  an  animal  can  so  put  off  its 
old  nature  and  be  disciplined  to  duty.  A  charming  cage 
was  got  for  Poll,  and  I  wish  you  could  see  how  ornamental 
he  is,  with  his  scarlet  tail  glowing  through  the  bright  bars. 
We  did  a  little  shopping  on  our  homeward  way,  and  Gran 
delights  in  green-grocers,  and  will,  I  am  sure,  be  out 
daily.  Your  aunt  Matilda  sent  to  ask  whether  she  should 
come  Thursday  afternoon  or  Friday  morning,  but  as  I 
expected  dear  Mrs.  Jones  I  said  Friday.  However,  the 
evening  wore  away,  and  no  Mrs.  Jones  appeared,  so  I 
sallied  forth,  taking  Mary  with  me,  and  found  that  Mrs. 
J.  was  prostrated  by  a  violent  sick  headache.  Mr.  J. 
showed  the  regiments  of  bottles,  some  to  make  him  well, 
some  to  keep  him  so.  You  know  what  I  think  of  this 
unreasoning  faith  in  doctors,  and  trust  to  their  mixtures 
and  concoctions,  rather  than  to  the  observance  of  the  gen- 
eral laws  of  health.  But  rather  than  diet  themselves  and 
take  regular  exercise  people  will  take  medicine  to  the  end 
of  the  chapter.  Yesterday  morning  E.  came  in  to  ask  me 
to  a  very  gay  dinner  party,  which  I  declined,  but  I  must 
make  an  effort  or  misanthropy  will  creep  over  me.  How- 
ever, I  am  clearly  right  to  eschew  cabs.  Poor  E.  suffers 
much,  and  the  sister,  husband,  and  children,  being  ruined, 
have  been  indefinitely  invited  by  that  most  excellent  R., 
who  indeed  is  not  the  fright  I  think  him  if  "  handsome  is 
that  handsome  does."  We  were  not  out  yesterday,  it  was 
so  wet  and  wretched,  but  the  day  went  much  too  fast  in 
unpacking  and  arranging,  and  snatches  of  reading.  I  '11 
tell  you  of  my  latest  votive  offerings,  —  a  pretty  blue  and 
white  knitted  short  cloak  from  dearest  Mrs.  Lyon,  for  my 


170  LUCY  SMITH. 

wear,  bat  I  give  it  to  Gran,  as  it  decorates  her  much ;  from 
Mima  and  Hessie  beautiful  black  and  gold  pins,  which 
dress  me  at  once,  and  dangle  and  ring  in  the  most  en- 
chanting way,  —  they  are  a  noble  votive.  From  dear 
Mrs.  Jones  a  bottle  of  real  eau-de-cologne,  from  the 
Cologne  shop.  Mrs.  Jones  came  last  night  and  had  cocoa 
with  us.  She  then  took  me  back  to  your  aunt  Matilda's, 
where  I  had  coffee,  and  your  aunt  Matilda  and  I  went  to 
the  Philosophical  Institution,  where  a  very  objectionable 
man  delivered  what  I  thought  a  trite  and  pompous  lecture. 
I  dare  say  I  was  wrong.  We  have  dined,  dear  Chick. 
That  dark  den  without  a  fire  is  incompatible  with  appetite, 
but  in  every  respect  economical !  The  streets  are  greasy 
and  dirty ;  we  think  of  a  cab  to  do  a  little  calling  in.  Your 
Gran  wants  to  get  out.  She  is  so  well,  and  so  amused. 
Her  activity  is  tremendous.  I  must  not  be  too  late  for 
the  post.  Your  D.  and  C.  [Debit  and  Credit],  dear,  I 
passed  on  to  Mima,  as  your  uncle  B.  had  given  me  a  copy. 
All  the  newspapers  I  have  seen  speak  favorably,  but  there 
will  be  no  profits. 

How  the  woman  reveals  herself  in  this  letter!  The 
little  things  which  make  up  a  woman's  life,  told  with  a 
touch  so  graphic ;  the  heartiness  which  gets  out  of  every 
petty  incident  its  fullest  value ;  the  racy  diction ;  the 
love  of  animals ;  the  fond,  anxious  tenderness  for  the 
mother ;  the  swift,  incisive  estimates  of  people ;  the  humor 
which  plays  so  kindly ;  the  almost  careless  mention  of  her 
own  literary  work ;  the  wise  counsel  to  the  young  girl,  so 
gentle  and  unobtrusive,  yet  weighty,  —  there  is  a  volume 
of  homely  philosophy  in  the  little  sentence  about  order. 
And  everywhere,  we  see  a  strong  and  gracious  spirit,  doing 
its  service  and  learning  its  lesson  amid  the  humblest  cares, 
which  love  and  fidelity  ennoble. 

A  life  so  faithful  and  so  full  as  this,  —  shall  we  expect 
to  find  at  its  heart  a  contentment  with  its  lot  ?  Or  is 


APPROACHING    UNSEEN.  171 

there  something  not  given  to  it,  some  deep  want  which 
being  bravely  borne  prepares  for  a  gift  held  in  reserve  by 
Heaven  ?  At  a  later  time,  the  woman  gives  us  a  glimpse 
into  her  deepest  life  in  these  years,  —  she  is  writing  of  a 
time  in  1856,  when  with  her  mother,  improved  but  not  yet 
restored,  she  had  gone  for  a  while  to  Keswick  in  the  Lake 
country.  "  I  remember  so  well  one  day  that  summer ; 
alone,  under  the  dark  shadow  of  a  yew-tree  on  the  hill- 
side, whence  one  saw  beneath  one  the  rocks  and  the  river 
of  sweet  Borrowdale,  —  I  remember  so  distinctly  a  mental 
struggle.  I  never  had  any  other  than  one  ideal  of  happi- 
ness, —  love  intensely  felt  and  returned.  Do  those  who 
really  care  for  love  care  for  anything  else  ?  I  never  did. 
But  I  believed  that  for  me  that  one  ideal  was  not  intended. 
My  life  had  had  its  vicissitudes  of  feeling  and  imagination. 
I  thought  that  the  future  had  no  great  joy  for  me,  —  only 
duties.  I  desired,  I  prayed,  to  be  satisfied  without  per- 
sonal happiness" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  THORNDALE." 

THE  thoughts  long  brooded  in  silence  and  in  solitude 
were  given  to  the  world  at  last.  "Thorndale,  or  The 
Conflict  of  Opinions,  by  William  Smith  "  was  published 
in  the  autumn  of  1857.  This  book  did  not  fail  of  an 
audience.  By  its  beauty,  its  profound  thought,  and  its 
rare  union  of  piety  with  open-mindedness,  the  attention 
of  the  intellectual  world  was  caught.  Eminent  critics  on 
both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  discussed  and  praised  it.  The 
day  of  its  special  fame  was  perhaps  brief.  But  it  may  be 
said  to  have  won  a  permanent  place  in  literature.  It  was 
one  of  those  books  which  exert  an  influence  beyond  their 
fame,  which  enter  as  a  potent  factor  into  many  minds, 
and  find  at  least  a  few  devoted  and  life-long  lovers.  As 
a  mirror  of  the  higher  phases  of  the  age's  thought,  it  may 
have  in  after  times  a  monumental  significance. 

"  Thorndale  "  is  a  book  of  some  six  hundred  pages.  The 
closeness  of  thought  in  every  paragraph,  the  wide  range 
of  topics,  and  the  subtle  interblending  of  diverse  elements 
make  it  an  almost  hopeless  task  to  justly  epitomize  its 
contents.  Yet  it  is  a  book  which  needs  both  interpreta- 
tion and  comment. 

Its  most  distinguishing  characteristic  is  the  union  of 
the  religious  temper  and  the  finest  sensibility  with  an  im- 
partial, receptive  attitude  toward  the  most  various  theo- 
ries of  the  universe.  Materialist,  theist,  Catholic,  and 
evolutionist  receive  an  equally  candid  hearing.  The  ver- 
dict on  some  points  —  and  those  sometimes  of  the  highest 
interest  —  appears  to  be  left  undecided. 


"  THORNDALE."  173 

The  work  to  which  the  reviewer  is  called  is  to  resolve 
and  recombine  the  elements  of  the  book ;  to  distinguish 
between  its  substantial  contribution  to  thought  and  those 
traits  which  are  wholly  subjective  and  personal ;  and  to 
trace  the  lines  of  a  harmony  arising  out  of  the  conflict. 
To  do  this  seems  to  be  in  fulfilment  of  one  of  the  book's 
closing  suggestions ;  "  I  think  I  could  have  brought  into 
harmony  what  seems  at  first  a  mere  conflict  of  opinions, 
and  shown  that  every  genuine  utterance  of  thought, 
whether  from  Cyril  or  Seckendorf  or  my  poor  friend 
Montini,  might  have  some  place  assigned  it  in  a  large  and 
candid  view  of  our  progressive  nature,  and  the  position 
we,  in  this  century,  occupy  in  the  great  drama  of  human 
history." 

Clarence,  who  utters  this  sentence,  with  Cyril  and  Seck- 
endorf whom  he  mentions,  and  the  Charles  Thorndale  to 
whom  he  speaks,  are  the  chief  personages  in  the  story. 
Cyril  is  the  representative  of  youthful  doubt  passing  into 
fervent  Catholic  piety ;  Luxmore  embodies  the  poetic,  im- 
aginative temper,  unconcerned  about  creeds ;  Clarence,  a 
landscape  painter,  is  the  sweet-natured  and  rational  en- 
thusiast for  human  progress;  and  Seckendorf — by  no 
means  the  least  attractive  figure — is  a  robust  German- 
English  physician,  who  voices  "  the  spirit  of  denial "  — 
incredulous  of  spiritual  entities  and  social  Utopias,  but 
with  a  vigorous  grasp  on  the  present  concrete  world. 
Thorndale  writes  in  the  first  person  ;  the  book  consists  of 
his  Diary,  some  chapters  of  reminiscences,  a  series  of  dis- 
cussions among  the  group  of  friends,  and  an  expanded 
statement  of  belief  by  the  one  to  whom  Thorndale  inclines 
most  favorably.  Thorndale's  slight  autobiography  bears 
small  resemblance  to  the  history  of  William  Smith.  But 
the  opinions  which  Thorndale  expresses  as  his  own  may 
be  taken  with  little  qualification  as  those  of  the  author. 
The  various  speakers  are  also  in  the  main  personifications 
of  different  phases  of  the  author's  own  thought.  It  is 


174  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

the  debate  in  his  own  mind  which  he  pictures  in  the  form 
of  conversation  in  the  Khigi  inn  or  by  the  lake  side.  We 
have  to  look  below  the  surface  of  the  book's  narrative,  to 
find  the  real  clue  to  the  progress  of  the  thought,  and  then 
to  construct  for  ourselves  a  synopsis  of  the  results  reached. 
The  proper  starting-point  is  the  story  of  Cyril,  which 
we  have  ventured  to  take  as  representing  in  its  early  por- 
tion the  experience  of  William  Smith,  and  as  such  have 
already  quoted.  It  is  the  natural  starting-point  of  a  mind 
bred  under  a  dogmatic  Christianity,  and  roused  to  in- 
quiry. But,  for  the  next  step,  we  are  not  to  follow  Cyril 
into  the  Catholic  Church,  but  to  accompany  Charles 
Thorndale  as  he  wanders  through  England  in  his  youth  — 
a  disappointment  in  love  serving  in  the  story  to  send  him 
forth  into  the  world.  He  sees  and  ponders  the  miseries  of 
the  poor. 

I  am  passing  along  a  highroad.  It  is  in  the  north  of  England, 
amongst  some  of  the  most  beautiful  scenery  we  possess.  A 
stone  wall  skirts  the  road,  just  high  enough,  as  is  so  often  the 
case,  to  conceal  all  the  prospect  from  the  pedestrian.  .  .  . 

Within  that  wall,  pacing  the  soft  turf  by  the  margin  of  the 
lake,  or  standing  in  mute  contemplation  of  the  scene,  was  a 
gentle  lady,  who,  from  the  studied  simplicity  of  her  dress,  evi- 
dently belonged  to  the  Society  of  Friends.  She  was  absorbed 
in  the  beauty  around  her.  One  felt  that  her  spirit  reflected  all 
the  peace  and  serenity  of  the  scene.  Placid,  contemplative, 
pious,  I  could  almost  read  her  thoughts.  "  Will  heaven  be  very 
unlike  this  ?  "  I  hear  her  murmur  to  herself.  "  Can  it  be 
very  much  more  beautiful  ?  Can  I,  should  I,  hope  for  a  scene 
more  lovely  to  meet  the  angels  in  ?  "  Such,  I  feel  persuaded, 
must  have  been  the  tenor  of  her  meditations. 

Without  that  wall,  on  the  hard  highroad,  came  by,  at  the  same 
time,  a  cart  drawn  by  a  miserable  horse.  It  came  slowly 
enough,  yet  clattered  noisily  along,  as  the  wide  shafts  swayed  to 
and  fro  against  the  sides  of  the  starved  beast  that  drew  it.  Be- 
side the  cart  walked  a  ragged  woman.  With  one  hand  she  held 
on  by  the  shaft,  that  she  might  be  partly  dragged  along ;  the 


"  THORNDALE."  175 

other  and  disengaged  hand  brandished  a  stick,  which  descended 
in  repeated  blows  on  the  wretched  animal.  Each  blow  was  ac- 
companied by  foul  and  odious  curses,  which,  though  addressed 
to  the  unoffending  brute,  I  interpreted  as  merely  the  ungovern- 
able outbreaks  of  her  own  tormented  and  miserable  spirit. 
Peace,  beauty,  goodness,  were  things  unknown  to  her  —  words 
for  which  she  had  no  meaning. 

And  this,  too,  was  woman  !  The  same  clay  of  humanity  had 
been  moulded  thus,  and  thus !  Both  women,  both  walked 
through  the  same  scene,  at  the  same  hour.  The  one  needed  but 
the  companionship  of  the  pure  and  holy  to  feel  that  she  was 
already  in  heaven ;  the  other  —  if  such  a  thing  will  bear  the  nam- 
ing —  Was  walking  through  this  paradise  very  like  a  soul  in  hell. 

Then,  again,  I  asked  myself,  Must  it  be  thus  always  ?  This 
creature  of  rags,  and  pain,  and  curses,  has  become  what  she  is 
by  no  natural  eccentricity  of  character.  Why  could  not  both 
have  been  gentle,  refined,  pious,  cultivated  ?  (Pages  101— 103.1) 

...  I  sat  down  under  the  portico  of  a  church  in  Regent  Street ; 
a  place  which,  at  that  time,  was  a  good  deal  infested  by  loiter- 
ers of  all  descriptions.  I  found  myself  amongst  beggars,  itiner- 
ant venders  of  knives  and  slippers,  women  with  large  pieces  of 
wash-leather  displayed  for  sale,  Italian  boys  with  their  images, 
and  the  like.  It  was  November ;  I  had  on  a  travelling  cloak 
and  cap ;  I  was  probably  taken  for  a  foreigner.  .  .  . 

Out  there  in  the  street  before  me  rolled  by  carriage  after  car- 
riage —  elegant  equipages,  as  they  are  called.  How  very  pal- 
pable it  became  to  me,  as  I  now  sat  here  on  the  pavement,  that 
those  who  looked  out  of  carriage-windows  regarded  us  as  a  quite 
different  race  of  beings,  as  quite  out  of  the  pale  of  humanity. 
Evidently  the  dogs  in  the  street,  the  lamp-posts  on  either  side 
of  the  way,  or  the  heaps  of  mud  scraped  up  for  the  scavenger's 
cart,  were  just  as  likely  to  occupy  their  thoughts  as  the  human 
group  to  which  I  then  belonged.  The  lady  and  gentleman  who 
walked  past  us,  with  stately  or  with  careless  step,  were  equally 
indifferent.  Unconscious  they  of  our  presence,  unless  as  obsta- 
cles in  the  path,  to  be  especially  avoided.  We  were  at  their 
feet,  but  far  beyond  their  vision  !  Soh !  thought  I  —  this  it  is 
to  sit  on  the  lowest  round  of  the  ladder.  It  is  well  to  try  the 

1  The  references  are  to  the  pages  of  the  second  (or  third)  edition. 


176  WILLIAM   SMITH. 

place.  How  very  near  the  dirt  we  are !  What  if  this  were 
verily  my  position  in  society  ?  I  imagined  for  the  moment  that 
it  was,  and  identified  myself  with  these  children  of  the  streets. 

I  learnt  something  from  my  new  position,  and  the  novel 
society  around  me.  I  felt  that  the  passionless  neglect  of  our 
superiors  was  returned  by  us  with  something  far  more  energetic. 
You  simply  pass  us  by ;  you  have  no  hostility,  nor  dream  of  ex- 
citing it ;  you  think  no  harm,  you  would  not  hurt  us  —  no,  nor 
would  you  hurt  the  crawling  toad  upon  your  path ;  you  avoid  us 
both,  and  for  the  very  same  reason  —  the  contact  would  be  dis- 
agreeable. Simply  you  do  not  love  us  —  this  is  the  extent  of 
your  feeling ;  but  ours  ?  I  detected  that  we  return  neglect  — 
with  hate !  .  .  . 

A  coarse  fellow  stands  near  me.  A  gentleman  with  his  dog 
passes.  The  dog  thinks  proper  to  assail  the  man  —  does  not 
bite,  but  barks,  as  if  he  was  very  much  disposed  to  do  so.  The 
gentleman  calls  off  his  dog  —  chides  and  reproves  the  animal  — 
but,  as  the  manner  of  the  English  gentleman  is,  he  does  not  cast 
a  look,  a  glance,  apologetic  or  otherwise,  upon  the  man !  All 
passes  as  a  breach  of  discipline  on  the  part  of  the  dog.  But  the 
man  followed  —  not  the  dog,  but  his  master  —  followed  with  a 
scowl  that  made  my  blood  run  cold.  "  Our  turn  may  come  one 
day,"  he  muttered  between  his  teeth,  "  and  then  !  "  —  some  hor- 
rible imprecation  was  lost  in  the  jostle  and  turmoil  of  the  street. 

Without  a  question,  we  of  the  pavement,  if  we  had  our  will, 
would  stop  those  smooth-rolling  chariots,  with  their  liveried 
attendants  (how  we  hate  those  clean  and  well-fed  lackeys!)  — 
would  open  the  carriage-door,  and  bid  the  riders  come  down  to 
us  !  come  down  to  share  —  good  heaven,  what  ?  our  ruffianage, 
our  garbage,  the  general  scramble,  the  general  filth. 

"  War  to  the  knife  rather !  "  they  of  the  chariots  would  ex- 
claim. "  War  to  the  death  rather  than  this !  "  —  and  with  good 
reason.  Meanwhile  they  ride  there  softly,  thinking  no  evil  — 
thinking  very  little  of  anything  at  all.  (Pages  109-111.) 

These  pictures  best  indicate  the  change  of  view  that 
comes  to  the  young  and  ardent  spirit,  which  at  first  was  dis- 
tressed about  its  own  salvation,  and  dismayed  by  the  in- 
trusion of  doubt  between  itself  and  its  God.  The  doubt 


"  THORNDALE:'  177 

is  not  at  once  dispelled  ;  the  vanished  God  does  not  clearly 
reappear.  But  there  has  been  a  diversion  and  a  broaden- 
ing of  interest.  The  immediate  wants  of  others,  the  press- 
ing and  momentous  problems  of  this  human  society,  have 
aroused  his  sympathies  and  his  thoughts.  And  when  he 
reverts  to  the  earlier  questionings,  it  is  by  another  ap- 
proach. The  problem  of  his  own  soul  has  become  the 
problem  of  the  whole.  The  fortunes  of  the  human  fam- 
ily, what  have  they  been,  what  shall  they  be  ?  Do  they 
move  forward  toward  propitious  consummation,  or  circle 
in  stationary  eddies  ?  This  life  of  the  race,  this  frame- 
work of  nature  in  which  it  is  set,  are  the  manifestations  to 
us  of  the  Supreme  Power ;  in  what  aspect  do  they  dis- 
close that  Power  to  us  ? 

"  God  —  Immortality  —  Progress,  these  are  my  three 
watchwords,  —  these  are  three  great  faiths  which  I  desire 
to  keep  steadily  before  my  mind.  ...  I  can  say  —  and 
am  happy  in  saying  it  —  that  these  three  faiths  are  mine." 
So  at  the  last  says  Thorndale  —  and  this  may  fairly  stand 
as  the  author's  Credo. 

Beyond  this,  the  book  leaves  us  in  doubt  how  far  his 
speculations  and  sentiments  have  crystallized  into  convic- 
tions. It  is  evident  that  he  sympathizes  with  the  view  elab- 
orated by  Clarence  as  a  "  Confessio  Fidei ; "  yet  the  im- 
pression is  left  that  he  holds  it  under  some  reservations  and 
doubts ;  while  it  wholly  omits  some  of  the  most  momentous 
topics  on  which  the  earlier  discussions  have  turned.  In 
the  personal  musings  of  Charles  Thorndale,  which  make 
up  Book  First,  we  feel  sure  that  William  Smith  is  speak- 
ing from  his  inmost  heart ;  but  in  these  we  sometimes  find 
uncertainty  where  the  Confessio  is  positive  ;  and  again  we 
find  hopes  and  faiths  as  to  which  the  Confessio  is  silent. 
And  in  the  discussion  among  the  friends,  there  are 
thoughts  and  sentiments  which  do  not  altogether  chime 
either  with  the  Confessio  or  the  Diary,  which  yet  seem  to 
have  the  stamp  of  the  author's  own  approval.  But  we 


178  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

have  an  important  clue  in  the  evidence  furnished  both 
by  his  earlier  and  later  writings,  and  especially  by 
"  Thorndale's  "  successor,  "  Gravenhurst,"  as  to  the  real 
and  final  trend  of  his  convictions  and  as  to  the  directions 
in  which  he  never  attained  conviction.  With  this  clue  in 
hand,  we  venture  to  compile  from  "  Thorndale,"  and  to 
present  with  some  defmiteness  of  outline,  the  religious  phi- 
losophy of  William  Smith,  —  the  philosophy  which  at  the 
age  of  fifty  he  had  substantially  reached,  and  of  which  his 
later  thinking  was  an  expansion. 

This  is  his  corner-stone  —  it  is  in  the  words  of  Clar- 
ence :  — 

This  relationship  of  Creature  and  Creator  is  the  keynote  of 
all  my  philosophy.  I  have  nothing  distinct  to  teach  —  I  have 
nothing  great  to  hope  —  I  can  represent  nothing  intelligibly  to 
myself,  unless  the  reality  of  this  relationship  is  accorded  to  me. 
Not  only  is  this  relationship  of  Creator  and  Creature  the  peren- 
nial source  of  such  religious  sentiments  as  are  destined  eternally 
to  exist  in  the  human  race  ;  but  every  intelligible  conception  I 
can  form  of  the  material  world  around  me,  or  of  my  own  con- 
scious being  —  what  matter  ts,  what  mind  is  —  all  my  philoso- 
phy, as  well  as  all  my  religion,  is  bound  up  in  this  relationship 
—  in  this  belief  of  an  Intelligential  Power  through  whom  all  is, 
and  has  been,  and  will  be.  (Page  432.) 

Meanwhile  some  one  asks  me,  Is  it  a  personal  God  you  be- 
lieve in  ?  I  can  understand  no  other,  I  cannot  conceive  Intelli- 
gence without  personality.  But  neither  am  I  obliged  to  make 
profession  of  understanding  the  peculiar  nature  of  God's  per- 
sonality ;  nor  am  I  compelled  to  apply  what  psychology  may 
teach  me  of  the  nature  of  human  personality  to  the  Divine  Be- 
ing. .  .  . 

To  him  who  is  baffled  in  his  efforts  to  personify  God  —  to 
him  to  whom  the  Monarch-Judge  upon  his  throne,  with  his  in- 
numerable host  of  angels  around  Him,  seems  all  too  plainly  the 
work  of  human  imagination  —  to  him  who,  when  he  refines  upon 
his  conception  of  a  personal  God,  finds  it  melting  into  thin  air, 
and  who,  when  he  calls  it  back  into  distinctness,  finds  it  too  full 


"  THORNDALE."  179 

of  humanity  —  to  such  a  one  I  would  say,  Learu  to  see  in  na- 
ture and  man  the  constant  work  and  vivid  manifestation  of  God. 
These  are  the  forms  in  which  He  has  invested  himself  for  us. 
Look  around  you  —  you  are  in  the  very  presence  of  God. 
Look  within  you  —  if  you  cannot  see  the  Giver,  you  see  in  your 
own  life  the  constant  gift.  This  feeling  that  you  are  God's  crea- 
ture —  so  simple  as  it  is  —  is  the  perennial  source  of  piety,  of 
purest  consolations,  of  noblest  hopes. 

The  darkest  cloud  which  can  pass  over  a  human  soul  is  that 
which  obscures  from  it  the  recognition  of  this  great  relationship 
of  Creature  and  Creator.  He  who  has  doubted  here,  and  then 
regained  his  faith,  will  feel  so  singular  a  gladness  that  he  will  be 
thenceforth  almost  indifferent  as  to  what  else  is  doubtful.  It 
is  in  vain  you  urge  the  importance  of  other  controversies,  he  can- 
not feel  their  importance  ;  he  leaves  your  polemics  to  those  who 
care  for  them,  or  need  them.  He  is  again  in  the  great  universal 
fold.  There  is  peace  and  security  throughout  the  universe,  and 
throughout  all  eternity ;  for  there  is  supreme  wisdom  and  su- 
preme love  ruling  and  creating  everywhere.  Love  and  wisdom 
are  but  two  names  for  the  same  thing.  We  call  love  by  the 
name  of  wisdom  when  it  acts  ;  we  call  wisdom  by  the  name  of 
love  when  it  thinks  and  feels.  Whatever  such  men  as  Cyril,  on 
the  one  hand,  or  Seckendorf,  on  the  other,  may  assert  to  the 
contrary,  it  is  not  a  mere  abstraction  that  is  given  to  us  in  the 
human  reason  :  our  God  is  very  Being,  very  Reason,  very  Love. 

I,  too,  can  recall  some  miserable  moments,  when  I  have 
walked  forth  alone  under  the  open  sky,  and  as  the  winds  blew 
the  great  clouds  along,  I  have  felt  that  I  also,  like  those  clouds, 
was  being  borne  along  by  a  power  as  incomprehensible  to  me  as 
the  torment  of  the  winds  to  them.  How  terrible,  then,  seemed 
the  unresting  and  irresistible  activities  of  nature  !  How  fearful 
this  prodigality  of  life  !  How  fearful  seemed  the  unpausing  cur- 
rent of  the  generations  of  mankind  !  —  a  stream  of  conscious  be- 
ing poured  out  by  some  deaf  inexorable  Power  —  pains  and 
pleasures  tossed  together,  flowing  tumultuously  along.  No  eye 
of  wisdom,  no  heart  of  mercy,  presiding  over  all ;  only  untiring 
Power  hurrying  on  the  interminable  stream.  Happily  such  in- 
tellectual chaos  did  not  last  long  within  me.  Light  broke 
through  ;  the  sun  was  again  in  the  heavens  ;  the  whole  world 


180  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

beamed  forth  with  reason  and  with  love,  and  I  found  myself 
walking  humbly  and  confidingly  in  the  presence  of  God. 

He  who  believes  in  God  is  necessarily  an  optimist ;  an  opti- 
mist, mind  you,  for  that  whole  of  things  which  embraces  the  has 
been,  the  is,  and  the  will  be.  I  cannot  but  feel  assured  that,  if 
the  whole  plan  of  our  world,  as  it  will  finally  be  developed, 
could  be  understood  by  us,  it  would  be  understood  as  one  great 
and  perfect  idea.  I  may  not  be  able  to  unravel  the  perplexities 
which  human  life,  and  the  social  condition  of  man,  present  to 
me  ;  I  may  not  be  able  to  foresee  the  future,  or  to  trace  the  way 
to  happier  societies ;  but  I  know,  through  faith  in  Him,  that  all 
will  finally  be  revealed  to  be,  and  to  have  been,  supremely 
good.  (Pages  440-442.) 

The  second  article  of  his  creed  is  the  progress  of  hu- 
man society.  He  bases  the  law  of  that  progress,  not 
merely  on  a  wide  observation  of  the  world's  history,  but 
on  the  constitution  of  the  individual  mind. 

Society  is  progressive,  because  the  individual  -mind  is  pro- 
gressive, and  here  and  there  one  outshoots  the  others,  and  leads 
the  rest  forward.  Thus  the  law  of  progress  must  be  sought  for 
in  psychology,  or  the  nature  of  the  individual  mind.  (Page  442.) 

We  may  look  upon  the  progress  of  man  as  ultimately  resolv- 
ing itself  into  a  gradual  revelation  of  truth  to  the  human  intel- 
lect. His  advance  in  knowledge  manifests  itself :  1.  In  his 
increased  power  (the  powers  of  nature  are  put  into  his  hands)  ; 
2.  In  the  great  contemplation  of  science  —  the  world  is  seen, 
admired,  loved  as  the  Divine  Idea ;  and,  3.  In  that  knowledge 
of  Humanity,  or  of  Human  Life  as  a  whole,  which  each  one 
should  carry  in  his  own  mind,  and  which  should  be  the  fountain 
source  of  his  morality.  If  you  ask  whence  this  increment  of 
truth  which  initiates  all  these  progressive  movements,  I  can  only 
trace  this  mental  light,  like  the  common  sunlight  at  our  feet,  to 
its  source  in  heaven.  Very  fitly  has  all  knowledge  been  called 
God's  revelation. 

Ponder  it  well :  are  not  our  three  great  gifts,  the  True,  the 
Good,  and  the  Beautiful,  constantly  being  disseminated  by  this 
one  process  —  the  expansion  of  the  human  intellect  ?  And  still 
it  grows  —7  it  grows !  Is  there  not  hope  that  a  time  may  come 


"  THORNDALE."  181 

when  all  will  get  their  great  inheritance  —  their  share  in  these 
three  great  gifts  ?     (Page  33.) 

I  can  predict  the  advancement  of  human  knowledge,  because 
experience  proves  to  me  that  it  is  the  nature  of  the  human  mind 
to  advance  from  knowledge  to  knowledge. .  I  can  also,  and  per- 
haps still  more  safely,  predict  the  extension  of  the  knowledge 
already  attained  by  the  few  to  the  many,  because  I  see  the 
means  in  operation  for  such  extension  ;  and  I  can,  above  all, 
form  some  estimate,  from  past  experience,  of  the  effect  which 
will  be  produced  on  the  whole  organism  of  society  by  this  ex- 
tension of  the  knowledge  and  habits  of  thinking  of  the  few  to 
the  many.  These  are  very  modest  claims  to  prophecy  —  very 
limited  powers  of  prediction  ;  but  it  will  be  found  that  they  are 
sufficient  to  justify  some  confident  anticipations  of  the  future  of 
human  society.  (Page  430.) 

The  author  makes  no  claim  as  an  original  discoverer ; 
he  speaks  of  Progress  as  an  idea  pervading  the  intellec- 
tual atmosphere  of  the  age.  But  he  interprets  that  idea 
in  a  fashion  of  his  own.  From  his  survey  of  the  leading 
stages  of  the  race's  advance,  we  take  a  few  passages 
among  others  almost  equally  striking. 

Man's  power  of  making  new  combinations  of  thought,  and 
thus  advancing  beyond  the  direct  tuition  of  the  senses,  is  first 
stirred  into  exercise  by  his  bodily  wants.  Apparently  no  crea- 
ture has  to  get  his  food  with  such  difficulty.  These  wants 
prompt  his  ingenuity,  prompt  him  to  self-help,  prompt  him  also 
(the  imaginative  being  that  he  is)  to  wild  petitions  for  help  from 
unseen  hands.  He  makes  some  rude  instrument,  he  frames 
some  rude  worship.  He  enters,  from  the  same  impulse,  into 
art  and  into  religion.  We  see  him  at  once  the  most  laborious 
and  the  most  imaginative  of  creatures.  (Page  468.) 

I  saw  yesterday  a  countryman  leading  his  horse  and  cart 
down  a  hill.  He  wanted  to  rest  his  horse,  and  he  adopted  the 
simple  expedient  of  putting  a  stone  under  the  wheel  to  keep  the 
cart  from  pressing  forward.  Here,  I  thought,  was  a  case  so 
simple  that  the  man  might  easily  have  been  the  original  in- 
ventor. He  hardly  needed  any  one  to  tell  him  of  such  an  ex- 


182  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

pedient.  He  had  seen  stones  enough  on  the  road,  and  had 
noticed  them  as  impediments  to  his  progress.  Here  he  wants 
the  implement ;  a  stone  is  at  hand,  and  he  applies  it.  If  he 
wanted  still  to  proceed  downhill,  without  distressing  his  horse, 
he  perhaps  ties  the  st»ne  to  the  rim  of  the  wheel,  and  here  is  a 
drag  invented.  As  this  tying  implies  the  previous  invention  of 
a  string  or  a  rope,  we  have  also,  in  this  instance,  a  rude  illustra- 
tion of  the  manner  in  which  one  invention  assists  and  leads  on 
to  another.  The  more  arts,  the  more  probability  of  new  com- 
binations amongst  them. 

Art  begets  science.  You  produce  a  desired  effect  with  one 
thing,  you  try  another  similar  thing  to  produce  the  same  effect. 
You  begin  to  classify  things  according  to  some  common  effect  or 
property.  And  then,  without  being  urged  by  any  immediate 
need,  you  ask  yourself  the  question,  Will  this  act  like  that  ?  will 
this  burn  ?  can  this  be  eaten  ?  without  having  any  particular 
wish  to  burn  or  eat  it.  (Page  469.) 

Those  who  fail  to  perceive  the  gradual  development  of  the 
higher  modes  of  moral  thinking  and  feeling  lose  the  greatest 
source  of  hope  we  have  for  the  future  progress  of  society.  These 
higher  modes  will  extend,  not  only  by  the  direct  teaching  of 
men  and  books,  and  the  communication  of  ideas  from  one  class 
to  another,  but  also,  and  mainly,  because  a  greater  number 
(owing  to  the  steady  advance  of  arts  and  sciences,  and  a  mate- 
rial prosperity  consequent  thereon)  will  be  in  a  condition  favor- 
able to  their  reception  and  their  development. 

The  highest  form  of  pure  or  simple  morality  is  where  the 
reason  of  the  man  chooses  and  adopts  a  line  of  conduct  because 
it  is  for  the  good  of  the  whole.  Here  the  reflective  man  legis- 
lates at  once  both  for  himself  and  for  society.  For  himself, 
because  the  reason,  having  once  approved  a  certain  conduct, 
must  issue  a  self-condemnatory  sentence  if  a  momentary  passion 
obscures  the  rule,  or  leads  him  to  transgress  it.  For  society,  be- 
cause he  stands  there  proclaiming  a  great  truth  to  others,  in 
which  all  others  are  concerned.  But  this  legislative  mode  of 
thinking  is  not  the  first  which  is  developed  :  it  is  developed  only 
in  a  few  minds,  and  not  in  those  till  society  is  somewhat  ad- 
vanced. In  no  mind  does  it  exist  alone,  or  unaccompanied  by 
other  and  more  ordinary  motives  of  morality.  Still  it  does 


« THORNDALE."  183 

most  certainly  exist.  It  is  a  grand  element  wherever  it  is  found. 
It  will  always  make  its  appearance  amongst  reflective  minds. 
Over  them  the  great  idea  of  public  good  will  sometimes  domi- 
nate like  a  passion.  From  time  to  time,  and  in  comparatively 
dark  ages,  there  have  risen  eminent  teachers,  —  raised  up  by 
God,  —  I  do  not.  say  miraculously,  because,  in  my  conception, 
all  his  works  are  equally  miraculous,  —  who  have  been  full  of 
this  great  idea.  Such  is  the  plan  of  our  world.  Minds  here 
and  there  outgrow  the  rest,  and  lead  them  onwards,  whether  in 
religion,  or  in  science,  or  in  morals.  (Pages  476-477.) 

Man  depends  on  man,  and  must  have  morality  of  some  kind. 
Man  depends  on  nature,  which  he  soon  interprets  to  be  a  de- 
pendence upon  God,  and  must  have  religion  of  some  kind. 
How  these  two  mutually  aid,  support,  and  elevate  each  other, 
I  shall  have  occasion  to  show.  It  is  my  belief  that  no  high 
morality  could  have  grown  up,  in  the  first  instance,  without  the 
aid  of  religion;  on  the  other  hand,  religion  is  but  a  grand  ego- 
tism, a  selfish  fear  or  selfish  hope,  till  it  is  linked  with  the  love 
of  man,  or  the  genuine  desire  to  promote  the  good  of  others. 
We  live  more  and  more,  as  we  advance,  under  the  felt  govern- 
ment of  God ;  but  then  we  understand  that  government  better 
as  we  advance.  Obedience  to  the  will  of  God,  and  sincere  de- 
sire for  the  good  of  the  whole,  become  intimately  and  insepa- 
rably blended  together  in  the  conscience.  (Page  427.) 

We  are  ultimately  in  the  power  of  our  ideas.  These  modify 
our  passions.  In  this  or  that  individual  man,  the  victory  be- 
tween Passion  and  Reason  may  be  doubtful.  In  Humanity,  as 
it  lives  from  age  to  age,  the  final  victory  is  not  so  doubtful. 
Slowly  and  surely  the  Intelligence  modifies  the  passion  to  itself. 
(Page  31.) 

He  illustrates  the  soul  of  good  in  things  evil  in  the 
case  of  slavery,  and  the  transition  to  free  labor. 

I  have  no  wish  to  disguise  the  harsh  nature  of  this  relation- 
ship of  master  and  slave.  But  it  was  what  the  times  demanded. 
What  we  see  most  prominent  in  all  early  periods  are  the  pas- 
sions of  war.  These,  too,  have  their  terrible  joy.  It  was  some 
step  in  advance  when  the  victor  spared  the  captive  to  convert 
him  into  a  slave.  A  harsh  relationship  it  must  have  been  under 


184  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

these  circumstances.  No  equal  rights ;  labor  compelled  by  the 
scourge  ;  obedience  prompted  by  force.  Yet  the  relationship 
itself  modifies,  and  its  harsh  lineaments  fade  away.  If  the  slave 
is  a  domestic,  some  community  of  feeling  and  of  interest  will 
rise  up  between  him  and  the  family  he  serves.  If  multitudes 
of  slaves  are  herded  together,  they  have  a  society  of  their  own 

—  a  society  within  a  society.     Nature  and  habit  so  contrive  it 
that  no  permanent  condition  of  humanity  is  without  its  solace. 
Harsh  enough,  however,  the  relation  must   still  appear  to  us. 
But  it  is  indispensable  that  we  note  the  important  part  it  has 
performed  in  the  onward  progress  of  society. 

A  single  tyrant  compels  thousands  to  work  for  him  —  to  build 
a  palace,  or  it  may  be  to  build  a  tomb  for  him  —  and  he  gives 
them  a  rag  and  an  onion  apiece.  What  seems  more  monstrous 
than  that  these  half-naked  creatures,  who  have  so  much  to  pro- 
cure for  themselves,  should  be  toiling  at  an  immense  pyramid 
for  the  dead  carcass  of  a  man  ?  But  the  natural  order  of 
events  is  often  precisely  that  which,  at  the  first  blush,  we  pro- 
nounce to  be  most  unnatural  ;  for  we  think  —  very  mistakenly 

—  that  what  is  most  rational  would  be  first  chosen.     This  most 
rational  thing  is  just  what  we  have,  through  many  curious  paths, 
to  get  at.    The  great  pyramid  of  Egypt  presents  no  very  rational 
or  very  aminable  object  to  a  reflective  man.     It  stands  there  a 
most  egregious  egotism  ;  at  the  best,  a  sublime  folly  ;  an  eternal 
mountain  of  stone,  and  this  absurd  mummy  at  the  core  of  it. 
Nevertheless,  the  knowledge  and  skill  were  doubtless  very  great 
which  this  monstrous  symbol  of  egotism  was  the  means  of  elicit- 
ing.    Let  it  stand  there  forever  in  the  desert  as  a  monument 
of  a  great  era  in  the  progress  of  mankind. 

Throughout  all  this  ancient  civilization,  note  one  thing :  The 
Judge  and  the  Moralist,  Law  and  Public  Opinion,  all  decree  in 
favour  of  this  right  of  property  of  man  in  man.  Men  become 
enlightened  jurists  and  profound  philosophers,  and  reason  much 
of  the  public  good  —  and  Religion  puts  on  her  high  moral  aspect, 
and  enforces  the  most  equitable  and  philanthropic  maxims  of 
conduct ;  but  all  these  generalizations  of  law,  morality,  and  reli- 
gion circle  harmless  around  this  institution  of  slavery  —  embrace 
it,  or  do  not  oppose  it.  The  public  good  requires  it,  or  did  re- 
quire ;  its  necessity  is  still  believed  in.  It  is  written  down  as 


"  THORNDALE."  185 

with  an  iron  pen  in  the  table  of  the  law,  that  man  has  an  undis- 
puted right  to  his  slave. 

I  advance  at  one  bound  from  the  Past  to  the  Present,  from 
the  era  of  slavery  to  what,  so  far  as  the  organization  of  industry 
is  concerned,  may  be  called  the  era  of  wages. 

The  Many  must  work  for  the  Few  before  the  Many  can 
work  for  the  Many.  And  this  working  for  the  Few  is  brought 
about,  in  the  first  instance,  by  compulsion  —  by  slavery  — 
which,  again,  is  the  result  of  war  —  the  combination  of  armed 
men  giving  to  few  the  power  over  many. 

It  may  appear  to  us  that  the  harsh  system  of  slavery  lasted 
much  longer  than  was  necessary,  but  its  necessity  as  a  prior 
condition  to  the  system  that  followed  cannot  be  denied.  And 
what  system  is  it  that  dies  out  just  when  we  think  it  might  be 
dispensed  with  ?  How  could  it  be  a  system,  and  have  all  the 
permanence  and  stability  of  custom  and  habit,  and  not  also 
manifest  this  inconvenient  and  obstinate  vitality  ?  He  who  has 
reflected  on  what  we  owe  to  custom  and  habit  will  not  be  very 
impatient  when  he  observes  them  still  perpetuating  some  insti- 
tution long  after  it  has  reached  what  seems  to  us  its  legitimate 
period  of  dissolution. 

It  was  only  in  the  city  already  built  and  peopled  —  it  was 
only  in  the  already  organized  community,  that  the  relationship 
of  employer  and  employed,  of  capitalist  and  workman,  destined 
to  substitute  that  of  master  and  slave,  could  spring  up.  It 
would  be  needless  for  me  to  describe  what  has  been  narrated  by 
many  others,  the  manner  in  which  free  and  paid  labour  was 
substituted  for  compulsory  labour.  Speaking  generally,  one 
may  say  that  there  grows  up  in  the  great  city  (as  descendants 
of  free  men  and  otherwise)  a  large  class  who  are  neither  slaves 
nor  proprietors  of  slaves.  Of  these  some  apply  themselves  to 
trade  and  commerce,  and  enrich  themselves  ;  others,  being  poor, 
are  willing  to  enter  into  their  service.  Thus  the  relation  of 
employer  and  employed  would  gradually  arise,  and  for  a  long 
time  coexists  with  that  of  master  and  slave.  It  would  probably 
soon  be  found  by  the  enterprising  citizen  that,  even  though  he 
could  purchase  slaves,  the  paid  labourer  was  more  profitable 
than  the  slave.  The  slave  must  be  bought  and  fed,  and  was  after 
all  an  unwilling  workman ;  it  was  bettter  economy  to  buy  the 


186  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

labour  only,  and  labour  of  a  more  voluntary  character.  The 
improved  plan  would  make  its  way  slowly  from  the  town  to  the 
country.  The  owner  of  land  and  serfs  manumits  his  serf,  and 
pays  wages  to  him  as  his  labourer.  He  manumits  himself  at 
the  same  time  from  the  responsibility  of  maintaining  his  serf. 
But  the  change  of  one  system  for  another  has  never  perhaps 
been  effected  in  the  case  of  land  without  the  aid  of  cooperating 
causes,  such  as  political  revolutions,  or  that  destruction  of  the 
Roman  empire  which  dispersed  the  inhabitants  of  cities  into 
the  country,  and  gave  both  new  owners  and  new  labourers  to 
the  soil.  .  .  . 

Mark  now  how,  with  the  proved  possibility  and  establishment 
of  a  new  system,  the  moral  code  of  society  changes  !  Slavery 
has  become  criminal.  The  rights  of  property  have  been  thus 
much  abrogated,  that  property  in  man  is  gone.  To  claim  such 
a  property  is  stigmatized  as  a  flagrant  wrong ;  and  society  can- 
not go  back  to  its  old  code.  We  call  this  right  to  personal 
freedom  an  eternal  right,  although  it  is  comparatively  new  to 
us ;  for  it  must  be  eternal  for  all  time  to  come.  Slavery  can 
never  again  belong  to  what  we  deem  the  perfect  type  of  society. 
(Pages  504-507.) 

Out  of  our  present  phase,  too.  something  better  is  to 
grow,  but  only  through  a  right  employment  of  this  pres- 
ent :  — 

And  now  if  this  progress  continue  —  if  the  multitude  of  man- 
kind should  be  able  to  command  by  their  labour  those  advan- 
tages which  pass  familiarly  under  the  names  of  comfort,  compe- 
tence, civilized  condition,  and  the  like,  how  can  I  but  foresee 
in  this  a  preparation  for  a  still  greater  approximation,  and  a 
more  equal  and  permanent  relationship,  between  employer  and 
employed  ?  I  cannot  but  foresee  in  this  power  of  producing 
for  the  multitude  an  abundance  of  all  the  requisites  of  a  human- 
ized existence,  —  combined  with  the  increasing  intelligence  of 
that  multitude  —  a  condition  of  things  in  which  this  great  busi- 
ness of  "  food,  clothes,  and  fire  "  will  be  conducted  in  such  a 
manner  that  want,  and  the  great  evil  of  our  present  state,  un- 
certainty, will  be  driven  out  of  the  world.  Not  that  I  suppose  a 
time  will  come  when  men  will  suddenly  say  amongst  themselves, 


« THORNDALE."  187 

"  Lo  !  we  have  now  a  productive  industry  which,  if  wisely  and 
equitably  directed,  would  suffice  to  give  house,  clothing,  books, 
instruction,  and  the  like,  to  all.  Let  us  then  reorganise  this 
industry,  that  it  may  accomplish  so  desirable  a  result.  Let  us 
set  to  each  one  a  task,  and  assign  to  each  the  conditions  of  a 
happy  existence."  This  is  wild  talk,  and  shows  an  utter  obliv- 
ion of  the  manner  in  which  society  progresses,  and  in  which  all 
great  permanent  changes  are  effected.  The  "  desirable  result " 
is  already  in  part  accomplished,  and  the  part  accomplished  will 
gradually  lead  to  such  modifications  in  our  customs  and  rela- 
tionships of  life  as  will  tend  to  its  complete  accomplishment. 

Meanwhile  all  our  prosperity  and  well-being,  present  and 
future, ,  are  bound  up  with  fidelity  to  the  existing  system  —  the 
charter  we  live  under  —  the  present  rights  of  property.  The 
landlord  and  the  capitalist  are  as  essential  to  our  civilization  at 
this  moment  as  the  hand  that  holds  the  spade  or  forges  the 
steam-engine.  I  would  assist  in  making  this  clear  if  it  were  at 
all  necessary.  For  not  only  do  I  hold  this  conviction  in  com- 
mon with  all  sober  and  rational  men,  —  in  common  with  those 
who  would  smile  at  my  hopes  of  the  future  as  visionary,  —  but 
on  account  of  these  very  hopes,  I  perhaps  hold  the  conviction 
with  even  more  earnestness  than  they  do.  Everything  depends 
here  in  England,  the  future  as  well  as  the  present,  on  faithful 
allegiance  to  our  laws  of  property.  (Pages  508,  509.) 

The  merits  in  the  present  system,  the  usefulness  of  the 
capitalist  and  the  landlord,  are  arrayed  against  the  fever- 
ish impatience  of  the  revolutionist :  — 

The  capitalist  does  nothing  to  produce,  at  least  directly,  the 
corn  and  meat  that  feed  the  labourer  ;  but  he  is  quite  as  neces- 
sary as  if  he  did  ;  for  it  is  he  who  combines  men  together  for 
the  production  of  commodities,  whether  of  need  or  of  luxury. 
If,  indeed,  men  had  intelligence  enough  to  form  the  same  com- 
binations, for  the  same  purposes,  without  his  aid,  his  office 
might  be  dispensed  with.  But  they  have  not  this  intelligence, 
and  great  must  be  the  training  and  discipline  and  elevation  of 
taste  before  they  could  possibly  have  it. 

You  complain  of  the  misdirection   of   industry  —  that  the 


188  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

workmen  are  not  exclusively  employed  in  producing  what  they 
themselves  want.  Why,  this  is  one  of  the  indispensable  func- 
tions of  the  capitalist  —  that  he  employs  men  in  producing  some- 
thing of  a  higher  character  or  description  than  could  be  pro- 
duced for  all ;  than  could,  at  least  in  the  first  instance,  be 
produced  for  all. 

And  as  to  the  landlord,  without  him,  in  some  form  or  other, 
there  would  never  have  been  any  civilization  at  all,  nor  any 
products  of  industry  beyond  the  rudest  and  quite  indispensable. 
To  him  all  refinement  is  in  the  first  place  due.  In  England,  at 
this  moment,  if  it  were  not  for  the  landlord,  the  earth  itself 
would  be  utterly  defaced ;  not  a  tree  would  be  left  growing ; 
nothing  but  a  miserable  patchwork  of  half-cultivated  plots  and 
allotments  would  meet  the  eye.  I  need  not  add  that  the  capi- 
talist, in  his  character  of  man  of  wealth,  performs  also  many  of 
the  functions  of  the  landlord. 

Some  one  perhaps  says,  This  seems  true,  but  explain  to  me 
why  there  is  this  contradiction  between  institutions  which  are  to 
command  approbation,  and  the  plainest  maxims  of  justice  and 
equity.  He  who  sows  shall  reap  ;  and  we  should  share  alike  in 
what  God  gives  to  all.  Explain  to  me  this  contradiction. 

I  both  can  and  will  explain  it.  The  maxims  of  justice,  as 
you  call  them,  and  which  you  adopt  as  the  last  general  laws  to 
which  appeal  is  to  be  made,  are  not  the  ultimate  rules  of  moral- 
ity that  you  take  them  for.  They  have  to  submit,  and  to  be 
subordinated  to,  a  higher  and  wider  rule.  The  good  of  the 
whole  is  the  paramount,  all-embracing  law,  to  which  appeal  is 
always  finally  to  be  made.  The  only  unalterable  law  of  moral- 
ity is  this,  that  the  good  of  the  whole  be  secured,  at  every  epoch, 
according  to  the  existing  power  and  intelligence  of  mankind. 
This  maxim,  that  a  man  should  possess  the  produce  of  his  own 
labour,  or  a  full  equivalent  to  it,  admirable  maxim  as  it  is,  is  not 
final ;  it  has  to  submit  to  a  greater  law  —  the  good  of  the 
whole  ;  it  never  has  been  applied  unrestrictedly  in  any  human 
society,  worthy  of  the  name,  and  never  could  be  so  applied. 

All  such  excellent  maxims  as  express  themselves  in  the  terms 
Equality  and  Fraternity  —  "  Share  alike,"  and  "  Love  each 
other  as  brothers  "  —  submit,  in  each  age,  to  different  limita- 
tions and  interpretations ;  and  rights  which  contravene  such 


"  THORNDALE."  189 

maxims  are  still  preeminently  moral  rights,  if  the  good  of  the 
great  organic  whole  of  society  require  them.    (Pages  511,  512.) 

Passing  over  large  tracts  of  thought,  we  cite  next  the 
development  of  the  religious  sentiment :  — 

It  is  by  the  religious  imagination  —  through  gods  and  divi- 
nation and  the  like  —  that  man  first  starts  into  intellectual  life. 
What  make  you  of  this  ?  That  the  intellectual  life  shall,  at  a 
subsequent  period,  altogether  depart  from  its  original  direction, 
and  ignore  religion  ?  I,  for  my  part,  find  that  the  first  dream 
of  imagination  is  in  a  line  with  the  last  truth  of  reason.  I  find 
the  whole  series  one  consistent  development.  Religion  grows 
with  science,  and  they  are  ultimately  seen  to  be  inseparable. 

What  is  the  theological  imagination  of  early  times?  It  is 
essentially  this  —  that  man  transports  himself  into  nature  — 
endues  the  great  objects  or  powers  of  nature  with  human  feel- 
ing, human  will  —  and  so  prays  and  worships,  and  hopes  to 
propitiate,  and  to  obtain  aid,  compassion,  deliverance.  Well, 
this  primitive  imagination  is  in  the  line  of  truth.  We  begin  with 
throwing  a  man's  thought  there  into  nature  ;  we  purify  and  ex- 
alt our  imaginary  being;  we  gradually  release  him  from  the 
grosser  passions  of  mankind.  We  are,  in  fact,  rising  ourselves 
above  the  domination  of  those  grosser  passions  ;  and  as  we  grow 
wise  and  just,  we  make  the  god  wise  and  just,  beneficent  and 
humane.  Meanwhile  science  begins  to  show  us  this  goodly 
whole  as  the  creation  of  one  Divine  Artificer.  And  now  we 
recognize,  not  without  heart-beatings,  that  God  indeed  is  not 
man,  but  that  He  has  been  educating  man  to  comprehend  Him 
in  part,  and  to  be  in  part  like  Him. 

Are  not  the  Imagination  and  the  Reason  here  strictly  affili- 
ated ?  We  begin,  as  it  has  been  boldly  and  truly  said,  by  mak- 
ing God  in  our  own  image.  What  else  could  we  do  ?  Nature 
had  not  yet  revealed  herself  to  us  in  her  great  unity,  as  one 
whole,  as  the  manifestation  of  one  Power.  We  make  God  in 
our  own  image,  but  by  and  by,  as  our  conceptions  on  every  side 
enlarge,  we  find  that  it  is  God  who  is  gradually  elevating  us  by 
the  expansion  of  our  knowledge  into  some  remote  similitude 
with  Himself.  He  is  making  us,  in  one  sense,  in  his  own 
image.  This  correspondence  between  the  human  and  the 


190  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

divine  is  the  keynote  of  all  religion ;  and  Imagination,  in  her 
apparently  wild  and  random  way,  had  struck  upon  the  note. 

God  is  making  man  in  his  own  image,  when  He  reveals  to 
him  the  creation  in  its  true  nature,  when  He  inspires  him  with  a 
knowledge  of  the  whole,  and  a  love  for  the  good  of  the  whole. 
But  the  first  step  in  this  divine  instruction  was  precisely  the 
hold  imagination  by  which  man  threw  out  into  nature  an  image 
of  himself.  The  form  that  imagination  threw  into  the  air  was 
gradually  modified  and  sublimed  as  man  rose  in  virtue,  and  na- 
ture was  better  understood,  till  at  length  it  harmonizes  with,  and 
merges  into,  a  truth  of  the  reason.  Was  man  to  wait  for  his 
God  and  his  religion  till  his  consciousness,  in  all  other  respects, 
was  fully  developed  ?  Or  was  the  revelation  of  the  great  truth 
to  be  sudden?  Apparently  not.  Man  dreamt  a  god  first. 
But  the  dream  was  sent  by  the  same  power,  or  came  through 
the  same  laws,  that  revealed  the  after-truth.  Nay,  he  dreams 
on  still,  and  reasons  on  still,  up  to  this  very  epoch ;  and  the 
dream  is  penetrated  by  the  truth,  and  the  truth  is  still  benefi- 
cently pictured  to  him  in  the  dream.  Perhaps  in  religion  some 
floating  relic  of  the  imagination  will  be  always  with  us.  Men 
cannot  look  upon  the  sun  itself ;  and  the  brightest  part  of  the 
firmament  on  which  they  can  rest  their  eyes  is  those  pinna- 
cles of  the  topmost  cloud  where  the  light  seems  to  be  made  pal- 
pable to  us  by  that  earth-born  vapour  which  interposes  between 
us  and  it.  (Pages  528-530.) 

One  of  the  most  fruitful  and  suggestive  passages  is  that 
which  depicts  the  rise  and  the  usefulness  of  the  idea  of  a 
God  of  Battle,  of  Terror  —  then  a  God  of  Punishment 
and  so  of  Justice  —  and  at  last  a  God  of  Love.  This  is 
the  climax  :  — 

Men  of  passion  and  imagination,  men  full  of  anger,  and  pray- 
ing for  the  destruction  of  their  enemies,  enthroned,  not  without 
feeling  of  fierce  cordiality,  an  Infinite  Anger  in  the  skies. 
Afterwards  the  dark  and  gloomy  throne  was  gradually  shaped 
into  a  Judgment-seat,  then  into  a  Mercy-seat,  but  with  the  old 
thunders  lingering  round  it  still.  Without  these* there  would 
have  been  no  feared  judgment,  and  consequently  no  vivid  con- 


"THORNDALE"  191 

ception  of  mercy.  Love  makes  its  first  entrance  into  our  hearts 
under  the  name  of  niercy.  The  new  dispensation  under  which 
we  are  said  to  live  left  the  old  Infinite  Anger  where  it  was,  and 
brought  forward  an  Infinite  Mercy,  forever  to  neutralize  it. 

And  now  does  not  something  like  a  climax  stand  out  clear 
before  us  ?  For  how  could  this  great  belief  in  Mercy,  which  is 
subduing  the  human  heart  to  an  unutterable  tenderness,  —  how 
could  it  have  appeared  in  the  world  but  for  its  antecedents  — 
the  reign  of  Divine  Anger  and  of  Judgment  ?  The  three  great 
ideas  of  Anger,  Judgment,  and  Mercy  are  blended  together 
most  conspicuously  in  our  own  faith. 

But  there  is  an  idea  higher  than  that  of  Mercy  which  has  en- 
tered last  of  all  into  the  world.  The  word  "  Grace  "  not  only 
signifies  pardon,  but  the  Spirit  of  God  moving  in  us  to  the  pro- 
duction of  a  new  life.  I  hold  this  word  "  Grace  "to  be  one  of 
the  noblest,  and  of  fullest  significance,  that  has  ever  been  ut- 
tered in  popular  theology.  At  this  point  the  highest  philosophy 
appears  blent  in  that  twisted  cord  of  reason  and  imagination 
which  binds  so  many  ages  together.  For  is  it  not  indisputably 
true  that  God,  by  his  free  gift,  is  creating  us,  age  after  age,  into 
new  and  higher  life,  and  wiser  love  to  man  and  to  Himself  ? 

u  Throw  thyself  upon  the  love  of  God,  thy  Creator  !  "  "  Per- 
fect love  casteth  out  fear !  "  These  are  the  last  utterances  of 
religion  in  the  most  advanced  nations  of  the  earth.  Add,  too, 
that  the  perfect  love  which  casteth  out  fear  is  the  love  also  of 
goodness  and  of  man.  By  no  other  means  will  fear  be  cast  out. 
I  speak  generally  of  mankind,  or  of  a  society.  I  say  the  Furies 
will  live  forever  in  the  imagination  of  guilt  or  crime.  Whether 
the  terror  arise  spontaneously  in  our  own  mind,  or  descend 
from  tradition,  from  the  imagination  of  other  men,  the  result  is 
the  same.  It  has  been  so  ordered  by  God  that  there  is  no 
peace  to  the  heart  of  man  but  in  the  great  sentiments  of  virtue 
and  the  love  of  God.  If  any  man  holds  that  a  human  society  — 
standing  where  we  stand  in  the  progression  of  ages  —  can  es- 
cape from  the  fear  of  God  by  any  other  outlet,  he  must  defend 
his  own  thesis.  I  should  be  a  hypocrite,  and  false  to  the  most 
irresistible  and  ineffaceable  sentiments  of  my  own  mind,  if  I 
taught  such  a  doctrine  ;  for  I  daily  and  hourly  feel  that  there 
can  be  no  peace  with  God  unless  there  is  good-will  to  man,  no  es- 


192  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

cape  from  fear  but  in  the  sentiments  of  love  and  obedience.  A 
people  that  passed  from  superstition  into  crime  would  inevitably 
return,  passion-led,  back  to  superstition.  (Pages  550,  551.) 

We  must  now  revert  to  the  discussions  in  which  Seck- 
endorf  plays  a  prominent  part.  The  author  entitles  this 
section,  "  Seckendorf,  or  the  Spirit  of  Denial ;  "  yet  this 
denier  and  critic  contributes  some  strong  elements  to  the 
final  and  positive  result.  We  must  let  him  speak  for 
himself.  This  is  his  general  ground  :  — 

I  stand  here,  the  advocate  for  the  world  as  it  is,  and  our 
faiths  as  they  are.  For  the  world  as  it  is,  with  its  ignorant 
multitudes  and  its  wiser  few,  with  its  passions  of  hate  and  of 
love,  its  griefs,  its  consolations,  its  truths,  its  errors,  and,  above 
all,  its  great  religious  faiths,  which  are  rooted  in  the  sorrows  and 
the  wrongs  of  men.  I  do  not  ask  if  these  are  true  ;  enough  for 
me  that  they  are  here.  I£ven  your  Utopian  dreams,  if  I  saw 
that  they  made  ten  men  happy,  should  have  a  place  in  the  cata- 
logue. I  like  this  wide  world.  I  like  the  sinner,  I  like  the 
saint ;  I  like  its  uproarious  youth  and  its  penitent  old  age.  Nor 
am  I  overmuch  distressed  about  the  miseries  of  life.  Every 
creature  grows  to  its  circumstances  ;  the  fur  grows  rough  as  the 
climate  roughens.  This  marvellous  force  of  habit  is  a  provi- 
sion against  all  fortunes  or  misfortunes.  I  have  tried  it.  I  — 
Baron  von  Seckendorf  —  have  lived  in  a  garret,  on  a  herring. 
Not  agreeable.  But  the  second  herring  was  very  savoury,  and 
vastly  welcome.  (Page  269.) 

Seckendorf  is  by  no  means  set  up  as  the  advocate 
merely  of  false  and  hateful  ideas.  A  great  deal  is  to  be 
learned  from  him.  This  cordial  affirmation  of  large  good 
in  humanity's  actual  present  may  well  win  response.  But 
the  destructive  phase  of  his  thought 'follows  close  :  — : 

Clarence.  You  look  upon  our  great  religious  faiths  merely  as 
parts  of  life  —  as  great  delusions,  in  short. 

Seckendorf.  They  do  not  owe  their  origin  to  philosophy  or  sci- 
ence, so  far  as  I  understand  the  matter.  But  they  are  spon- 
taneous products  of  the  imagination  and  the  passions  of  men, 


"  THORNDALE."  193 

which  philosophy  and  science  would  do  well  to  let  alone ;  and 
which  that  "  intellectual  progress  "  you  boast  so  much  of  would 
assuredly  put  in  peril.  (Pages  269,  270.) 

As  to  the  fundamental  question,  the  being  of  God, 
Seckendorf's  position  is  not  one  of  denial,  but  of  inability 
to  reach  any  clear  conception  :  — 

Thorndale.  There  is  at  least  one  great  truth  that  reveals  it- 
self —  the  being  of  God  —  a  truth  that  rides  high  in  the  heav- 
ens, clear  and  bright  as  the  sun  at  noonday. 

Seckendorf.  Bright  as  the  sun  at  noonday  !  Is  it  always  noon- 
day with  us,  Thorndale  ?  Is  there  always  a  sun  in  our  sky  to 
hide  the  dark  and  illimitable  space  beyond  ?  Is  there  not  also 
an  infinitude  of  night  and  of  stars  ?  And  tell  me,  in  the  widest 
view  we  catch  of"  the  universe  —  is  it  light  or  darkness  that 
chiefly  prevails  for  the  vision  of  a  man  ? 

The  existence  of  God  is  clear  to  demonstration  —  till  we  ask 
ourselves  what  conception  of  God  we  have  attained.  Reason,  — 
meaning  thereby  the  unity  of  parts  in  a  whole,  —  adaptation,  har- 
mony, is  everywhere  apparent ;  without  it,  I  suppose,  nothing 
exists  that  does  exist.  But  the  reasoning  Being  —  how  form 
this  conception  ?  To  me  The  All  seems  to  be  the  only  represen- 
tative, for  us,  of  this  Reason  or  Power  ;  for  it  is  hard  to  give  any 
name  to  what  transcends  all  human  thought.  (Pages  270,  271.) 

Here  from  another  connection  is  a  pregnant  saying :  — 

"  I  believe,"  Seckendorf 'would  sometimes  say,  —  "I  believe 
in  God,  till  your  philosophers  bring  me  a  demonstration  of  his 
existence." 

"  And  then  ?  "  I  said. 

"  And  then —  I  do  not  believe  in  the  demonstration."  (Page 
433.) 

Against  the  belief  in  an  upward  progress  of  society, 
Seckendorf  arrays  the  evils  which  attend  man  in  barba- 
rism and  in  civilization. 

The  steam-engine  is  the  great  boast,  and  fairly  so,  of  modern 
times  ;  but  follow  the  steam-engine  throughout  its  whole  history, 
its  making,  and  all  the  work  it  performs,  and  for  every  stroke  of 


194  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

the  piston  there  has  been  the  stroke  of  a  human  arm,  or  perhaps 
the  throbbing  of  some  human  brain.  For  when  the  man  has 
got  the  machine  to  work  for  him,  he  always  finds  that  he  has 
converted  himself  also  into  a  machine,  and  stands  by,  working 
mechanically  with  it  hour  after  hour.  No  engine  has  yet  been 
invented  which,  if  it  profited  one  part  of  mankind,  has  not  also 
been  an  engine  of  torture  to  another.  .  .  . 

To  my  mind,  one  of  the  saddest  spectacles  the  earth  reveals 
is  precisely  this :  The  traveller  depicts  to  me  some  fertile  island 
in  a  delicious  climate,  where  the  bread-fruit  hangs  from  the  tree, 
where  the  soft  winds  are  themselves  warmth  and  clothing  —  de- 
picts to  me  an  earthly  paradise  ;  and  the  next  moment  he  shows 
me  the  human  tenant  of  it,  a  very  child,  a  simple  savage,  very 
little  wiser  than  the  fowls  of  the  air,  or  the  fishes  of  the  sea. 
No  progress  was  made,  because  the  earth  "was  spontaneously 
fruitful,  and  the  skies  were  kind. 

You  tell  me  that  man  invents  marvellous  machines  that  work 
for  him.  He  cannot ;  his  machines  are  only  complicated  tools, 
with  which  he  also  must  continually  work.  But  if  he  could 
make  the  iron  and  the  wood  really  work  for  him,  then  behold 
the  bread-fruit  tree  is  again  growing  over  his  head  —  the  winds 
again  are  clothing  him  —  he  is  again  an  idler,  and  crawling  like 
an  infant  on  the  ground. 

We  labour  and  we  die.  Well,  but  the  moralist  will  teach  us 
how  to  live  the  little  life  we  have.  If  by  morality  be  meant  a 
control  of  the  passions,  the  teacher  has  either  a  very  hopeless, 
or  very  needless  task.  Whilst  the  passion  is  young  and  strong, 
the  moralist  is  not  heard  ;  when  it  is  feeble  or  extinct,  the  man 
can  moralize  for  himself  —  only  much  too  late.  Just  when  we 
have  learned  to  live,  we  find  that  we  are  dying  out ;  just  when 
we  begin  to  value  this  mysterious  gift  of  life,  it  is  taken  from 
us.  We  leave  our  place  to  some  puling  infant ;  "  the  sage  is 
withering  like  a  leaf."  We  are  mere  stubble,  and  the  plough 
passes  over  us  that  a  new  verdure  may  spring  up.  Not  a  day 
even  of  the  brief  space  allotted  to  us  is  secure.  We  tread  per- 
chance upon  a  rolling  stone  —  we  breathe  an  air  too  keen  — 
and  there  is  an  end  to  all.  Fool  or  philosopher,  it  is  all  alike. 
(Pages  303,  304.) 


"THORNDALE."  195 

The  problem  of  the  individual  destiny  is  interwoven 
with  the  analysis  we  make  of  the  individual  man.  Seck- 
endorf  takes  the  materialistic  view :  — 

"  Matter  cannot  think  —  inert  matter,"  as  we  hear  it  said, 
"  cannot  think."  Certainly  not.  Inert  matter  cannot  move. 
It  is  moving  matter  that  moves.  It  is  growing  matter  that,  in 
the  vegetable,  grows.  If  your  definition  of  matter  is  limited  to 
some  one  property,  which  all  matter,  at  all  times,  displays,  your 
definition  cannot  help  us  much.  The  property  of  extension  leads 
us  no  farther  —  than  the  property  of  extension.  If  your  defini- 
tion is  to  embrace  all  properties,  which  matter,  at  any  time,  un- 
der any  circumstance,  may  manifest,  —  mechanical,  chemical, 
vital  properties,  —  then  it  is  evident  that  such  a  definition  must 
be  the  last  result  of  all  our  knowledge.  Whether  the  property 
of  sensibility  or  feeling  shall  be  added  to  those  already  enumer- 
ated is  precisely  the  question  we  should  have  to  discuss. 

I  notice  you  adopt  the  expression  so  frequently  used,  the  brain 
is  the  instrument  of  the  mind.  Be  it  so.  But  it  is  an  instru- 
ment of  that  curious  order  that  takes  the  initiative.  (Page 
345.) 

Thorndale.  If  material  objects  and  their  relations  exist  inde- 
pendently of  me,  yet  my  perception  of  these  relations  is  a  power 
quite  my  own.  There  is  a  power  here  which  lies  unseen,  behind 
the  vital  organism,  and  makes  use  of  it  as  its  instrument. 

Seckendorf.  Its  instrument  \  This  is  the  favourite  analogy. 
The  body  is  an  instrument.  Why  may  it  not  be  the  seat  itself 
of  those  susceptibilities  which  constitute  consciousness  ?  But  if 
the  brain  is  an  instrument  of  the  mind,  it  is  one  which,  as  I  have 
said,  takes  the  initiative.  If  your  analogy  be  of  a  musical  in- 
strument, it  looks  very  like  the  performer.  Adopt  this  last  fan- 
ciful comparison.  The  vital  organism  shall  be  the  pipe,  and  the 
spirit  shall  be  the  breath  blown  into  it.  Now,  what  if  the  pipe 
have  a  rhythmical  movement  of  its  own,  by  which  it  enlarges  and 
contracts  its  orifice,  causing  a  sharper  or,  a  lower  note  at  each 
change,  —  which  is  the  performer,  the  breath  or  the  pipe  ? 

My  companion  takes  a  few  glasses  of  wine  ;  the  circulation  of 
the  blood  through  the  innumerable  vessels  of  the  brain  is  quick- 


196  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

ened  (to  say  nothing  of  what  the  champagne  or  the  hock  may 
have  added  to  the  blood  itself)  ;  and  the  processes  of  thought 
are  quickened  too.  But  they  are  more  than  quickened  ;  they 
are  varied,  they  are  improved.  My  companion  grows  witty, 
cheerful,  perhaps  eloquent.  I  listen  to  combinations  of  thought 
which  most  assuredly  —  but  for  the  wine  —  would  not  have 
made  their  appearance  that  day.  He  drinks  a  few  more 
glasses,  and  the  wit  degenerates  into  nonsense,  and  the  amiabil- 
ity into  a  maudlin  humour,  or  the  vivacity  of  spirit  into  a  quar- 
relsome temper.  He  drinks  still  more,  and  there  ensues  a 
complete  confusion  in  all  his  thoughts :  we  say  he  is  no  longer 
a  rational  being. 

Now  observe,  it  is  precisely  on  the  succession  and  combina- 
tion of  our  ideas  that  our  rationality  depends  ;  and  here  you  see 
that  these  are  determined  by  the  physical  condition  of  the  man. 
I  want  to  know  what  proof  you  could  have  more  convincing 
than  such  a  commonplace  fact  —  that  the  vital  organism  takes 
the  initiative  —  that  in  its  movements  and  functions,  whatever 
they  may  be,  you  have  the  proximate  cause  of  that  succession 
or  association  of  ideas  which  distinguishes  us  as  rational  beings. 
(Pages  362,  363.) 

I  think  one  idiot  humbles  us  all.  Here,  in  these  beautiful 
valleys  of  Switzerland,  amongst  these  sublimities  of  nature,  is 
born  the  Cretin.  He  has,  or  may  have,  all  his  senses  ;  he  .can 
see,  touch,  hear,  more  or  less  perfectly ;  but  his  brain  is  mal- 
formed, or  an  impure  blood  deteriorates  its  growth,  or  fails  to 
supply  some  appropriate  stimulant.  He  learns  nothing  ;  makes 
no  more  advance  than  the  cattle  in  the  stall ;  child  always,  let  his 
age  be  what  it  may.  A  pious  Mahometan  would  tell  us  that 
his  soul  is  in  heaven,  and  on  this  account  would  invest  the  poor 
creature  with  a  sort  of  sanctity.  A  strange  superstition  !  — 
gentle  if  not  wise. 

Meanwhile  the  disease  of  the  Cretin  is  sometimes  partially 
curable.  As  the  physician  conquers  the  malady  —  as  a  purer 
blood  is  produced  —  as  this  and  that  tissue  is  restored  or  raised 
to  its  normal  susceptibility  —  lo !  a  glimmer  of  the  soul  appears  ! 
The  Mahometan  would,  I  suppose,  tell  us  that  the  physician  is 
summoning  it  from  heaven.  To  the  physician  it  seems  very 


"  THORN  DALE."  197 

clear  that  the  animal  health  he  has  partially  restored  was  that 
missing  link  in  the  great  established  order  of  development, 
without  which  there  could  be  no  higher  thinking  than  the  idiot 
had  displayed.  (Page  342.) 

Seckendorf  relates  some  stories  from  his  own  life,  and 
among  them  this  :  — 

It  happened  that  a  citizen  of  Berlin,  noted  for  his  wretched 
and  violent  temper,  finally  ended  his  career  by  blowing  out  his 
brains.  He  chose  a  sentry-box  in  the  public  street  for  the  scene 
of  this  exploit.  Though  life  was  extinct,  the  people  neverthe- 
less carried  him  into  the  hospital.  I  was  passing  at  the  time.  I 
had  some  little  knowledge  of  the  man,  and,  mingling  with  the 
medical  students,  I  entered  with  them  into  the  hospital.  The 
man  was  quite  dead,  and  a  post-mortem  examination  ensued. 
An  eminent  physician,  passing  through  the  room  just  as  the 
operators  were  commencing  their  work,  said,  as  he  hurried  on 
to  some  pressing  avocation  of  his  own,  "  Look  under  the  dura 
mater,  and  see  if  there  are  not  some  osseous  deposits."  The 
operator  did  not  fail  to  look,  and  lo  !  there  were  osseous  depos- 
its, "  evidently,"  as  they  all  pronounced,  "  of  a  very  irritating 
sort." 

I  was  struck  with  this  incident,  both  because  of  the  certainty 
and  precision  of  the  physician's  knowledge,  and  because  of  the 
palpable  cause  here  discovered  of  the  violent  and  ungovernable 
temper  of  the  unhappy  man.  I  thought  that  the  temper  of  some 
other  men  I  knew  would  be  a  little  more  intelligible  if  one  could 
only  look  under  their  dura  'mater.  (Page  283.) 

He  portrays  himself  :  — 

The  temperament  of  a  man,  the  blood  that  is  in  him,  is  apt,  I 
suspect,  to  overrule  his  philosophy.  If  this  thinking  faculty  of 
mine  had  been  lodged  in  some  slender,  feeble  shred  of  a  body  — 
all  nerve  and  sensibility  —  I  should  have  doubtless  taken,  once 
for  all,  to  books  and  meditation,  and  laboured,  perhaps  — I  also 
—  to  obtain  the  reputation  of  a  philosopher.  But  only  measure 
me !  (and  Seckendorf,  laughing  at  his  own  idea,  stood  up  at  his 
full  height)  —  I  stand  six  feet  some  inches,  the  naked  heel  rest- 
ing on  the  mother  earth.  Age  has  narrowed  and  rounded  in 


198  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

my  shoulders ;  but  there  was  a  time  when  I  could  have  borne 
off  a  professor  of  philosophy  upon  each  one  of  them.  I  had  the 
thews  and  sinews  of  a  tiger ;  I  could  have  endured  fatigue  with 
a  North  American  savage ;  I  have  fasted  for  three  days,  and 
then  fed  like  a  boa-constrictor.  Was  this  the  digestion  for  a 
philosopher  ?  Was  this  the  organization  for  one  who  asks  noth- 
ing of  material  nature  but  a  headpiece  to  think  with,  and  so 
much  animal  mechanism  as  goes  to  the  moving  of  a  pen  ?  I 
could  for  weeks  together  spend  the  whole  day,  and  much  of  the 
night,  in  indefatigable  study.  Then  would  follow  a  craving  for 
physical  excitement,  an  appetite  for  action,  quite  irrepressible.  I 
would  then  ride  the  fleetest  horses,  urged  to  their  utmost  speed ; 
or  I  would  repair  to  the  fencing-school.  The  use  of  every 
weapon  was  familiar  to  me,  but  the  sword  and  the  foil  were  my 
favourites.  The  energetic  contest  of  man  with  man,  some  sort 
of  fighting,  believe  me,  comes  very  natural  to  the  human  animal. 
Foot  to  foot,  eye  on  eye,  stroke  on  stroke,  there  is  no  excite- 
ment like  the  combat.  (Page  285.) 

We  do  not  attempt  to  precisely  disengage  from  Seck- 
endorf  's  views  the  elements  which  commend  themselves 
finally  to  Thorndale  or  the  author.  But  the  foregoing 
may  be  well  accompanied  by  Thorndale's  recognition  of 
the  degree  to  which  character  is  inevitably  the  result  of 
antecedent  circumstances :  — 

You  take  a  single  soul,  and  tax  it  with  its  single  guilt.  It  is 
right  and  fit  to  do  so.  And  yet  in  every  single  soul  it  is  the 
whole  world  you  judge. 

Yes  !  it  is  right,  and  fit,  and  reasonable  that  the  man,  whilst 
living  with  his  kind,  should  be  treated  as  the  sole  originator  of 
all  he  does  of  good  or  of  evil.  Cover  him  with  honour  !  Stamp 
him  with  infamy !  Thus  only  can  man  make  an  ordered  world 
of  it.  And  are  not  this  reciprocated  honour  .and  dispraise,  given 
and  received  by  all,  great  part  of  human  life  itself  ?  But  in  thy 
hands,  O  Rhadamanthus,  judge  of  the  dead !  what  is  this  soli- 
tary soul?  It  is  but  as  a  drop  in  the  great  ocean  of  life  — 
clear,  or  foul,  as  winds  from  either  pole  have  made  it.  Aye,  and 
the  very  undersoil  on  which  it  lay,  on  which  it  was  tossed  to 


"  THORNDALE."  199 

and  fro,  had  been  broken  up  by  forgotten  earthquakes  and  ex- 
tinct volcanoes.  A  whole  eternity  had  been  at  work  where  that 
drop  of  discoloured  water  came  from.  (Pages  40,  41.) 

As  to  the  materialistic  theory  of  man's  nature,  which 
Seckendorf  presents,  the  author  himself  appears  unde- 
cided. He  seems  to  give  the  weight  of  argument  on  Seck- 
endorf's  side  ;  and  in  the  adverse  arguments  of  Clarence 
and  Thorndale  we  find  nothing  so  striking  as  to  call  for 
citation  in  this  condensed  resume.  Yet  the  author's 
agreement  appears  to  be  with  Clarence  when  he  declares, 
"  I  am  utterly  unable  to  conceive  of  thought  as  the  func- 
tion of  a  material  and  constantly  fluctuating  organization. 
I  have  no  doubt  myself  of  the  immateriality  of  that  which 
ultimately  is  conscious."  He  seems  at  once  unable  to  re- 
fute the  argument  for  materialism  and  unconvinced  by  it. 
He  does  not  consider  that  materialism  leads  necessarily  to 
atheism,  or  even  to  the  denial  of  immortality.  But  from 
this  last  conclusion  Seckendorf  does  not  shrink,  and  he 
states  it  in  the  most  telling  way  :  — 

Do  you  think  that  the  belief  in  immortality  could  last  a  mo- 
ment if  stated  as  a  bare  fact  of  natural  philosophy  ?  There 
lies  a  dead  man  !  Nature  does  not  revive  that  dead  man.  She 
has  a  quite  different  plan.  She  makes  another.  He  is  already 
here.  The  living  son  is  carrying  the  dead  father  to  his  last 
rest. 

You  put  out  a  man's  eyes,  and  he  no  longer  sees  ;  you  dam- 
age his  brain,  and  he  no  longer  remembers  ;  you  kill  him  out- 
right, and  he  is  supposed  to  start  up  all  sight  and  all  memory ! 
Confess  this  does  not  wear  the  air  of  probability.  (Page  277.) 

He  asserts  that  the  theory  of  a  spiritual  existence  in 
man,  distinct  from  matter,  is  only  clung  to  because  it 
alone  gives  room  for  the  hope  of  immortality.  Thorndale 
disclaims  this  bias,  and  maintains  that  the  materialistic 
view  too  permits  that  hope  :  — 

Seckendorf.  Confess,  Thorndale,  it  is  not  a  "  scientific  ne- 
cessity," it  is  not  the  aid  it  affords  to  a  scientific  exposition,  that 


200  WILLIAM   SMITH. 

induces  you  to  cling  to  this  spiritual  ens.  It  is  a  theological 
necessity ;  it  is  the  aid  it  renders  to  religion,  and^  especially  to 
the  doctrine  of  immortality.  You  need  something  to  carry  out 
beyond  the  world,  beyond  the  circle  of  nature  —  beyond  the  at- 
traction of  your  earth.  It  is  this  which  determines  the  complex- 
ion of  your  metaphysics  ;  and  let  it  be  so,  Thorn  dale,  now  and 
always.  A  religious  creed  is  something  in  the  happiness  of  a 
man  ;  a  metaphysical  system  nothing  at  all. 

Thorndale.  I  certainly  should  regret  to  find  myself  com- 
pelled to  adopt  any  conclusion  adverse  to  a  belief  in  the  im- 
mortality of  the  soul.  But  if  I  know  myself,  this  reluctance  or 
recoil  has  had  no  undue  influence  on  my  judgment  here.  And, 
moreover,  I  will  add  this,  that  though  the  doctrine  of  the  im- 
materiality of  the  thinking  being  lends  itself  readily  to  the 
belief  of  immortality,  or  of  a  perpetuated  consciousness,  yet  ma- 
terialism itself  (to  one  who  believes  that  all  is  created  by  God) 
is  not  absolutely  repugnant  to  that  faith.  The  power  which 
created  our  consciousness  here  on  earth  could  re-create  it  else- 
where. The  question,  "  material  or  immaterial,"  may  not,  after 
all,  be  of  so  much  theological  importance  as  is  generally  sup- 
posed. For  if,  on  the  one  hand,  matter  itself  be  nothing  else, 
in  our  last  conception  of  it,  than  a  mode  of  divine  action,  one 
manifestation  of  divine  power ;  and  if,  on  the  other  hand,  we 
cannot  attribute  to  mind,  or  soul,  self-existence,  but  must  always 
regard  it  as  upheld  by  its  Creator ;  it  follows  that  we  rest  as 
directly  on  the  power  and  will  of  God,  whether  we  call  ourselves 
materialists  or  immaterialists.  If  it  is  a  thinking  body,  and  not 
a  thinking  soul,  that  God  has  created  here,  He  may  create  else- 
where another  thinking  body  to  perpetuate  this  consciousness, 
just  as  well  as  He  could  uphold  and  transport  a  thinking  soul. 

I  can  detect  nothing  absurd  in  the  idea  of  the  creation  of 
another  organism  to  carry  on  and  perfect  the  consciousness  de- 
veloped here  —  that  consciousness  which  is  the  great  result,  so 
to  speak,  of  the  whole  world.  (Page  354.) 

Clarence  suggests  that  even  if  this  life  terminates  our 
existence  we  have  still  the  ground  for  gratitude  and  wor- 
ship :  — 

And  is  it  not  true  that,  just  in  proportion  as  our  scope  of 


« THORNDALE."  201 

thought  is  enlarged,  we  must  rise  into  grander  conceptions  of 
the  Creator,  and  feel,  in  the  simple  fact  of  being  his  creature, 
an  inexhaustible  source  of  piety  and  of  hope  ?  Say  that  each 
one  of  us  has  but  this  present  life,  how  great  this  life  becomes, 
great  in  its  ample  vision  of  nature  and  of  God,  great  in  itself 
and  its  own  affections,  great  in  its  embracing  the  lives  of 
others !  Say  even  that  our  dream  of  immortality  is  but  a  sort 
of  provisional  faith,  educating  and  disciplining  us  for  a  noble  so- 
ciety on  earth  (a  doctrine  I  should  lament  to  be  compelled  to 
believe) ;  say  that  to  ask  for  the  reproduction  or  re-creation  of 
a  given  man  is  to  ask  for  the  re-creation  of  the  whole  world  of 
which  he  was  a  part ;  say  that  it  is  as  idle  to  wish  back  the  dead 
as  to  wish  back  the  roses  of  last  summer  ;  —  you  still  have  this 
living  man  before  you,  with  all  his  expanding  knowledge  and 
generous  affections,  — you  still  must  admit  the  continuous  growth 
of  this  humanity,  —  this  greatest  creation  of  God,  the  sum  and 
climax  of  all  else  we  call  creation.  (Page  485.) 

And  the  poet  Luxmore  dwells  on  the  idea  of  a  delight  in 
the  spectacle  of  the  world,  and  in  the  sense  of  existence, 
independent  of  any  aspirations  for  individual  perma- 
nence :  — 

I  see  the  poet ;  I  see  him  lying  by  the  borders  of  his  lake. 
.  .  .  But  mountain  and  shadow,  and  lake  and  tree,  are  all  for 
him,  for  him.  These  wonderful  creations  of  unconscious  space 
are  born  again,  and  have  their  full  and  complete  existence  in 
the  poet's  mind.  For  him,  and  in  him,  all  this  beauty  lives. 
The  mountain  becomes  a  grandeur  only  in  his  thoughts  ;  as  it 
exists  in  the  unconscious  air,  it  is  mere  bulk  and  measurement. 
I  see  my  poet,  leaning  on  the  moss-covered  rocks,  looking  at  it 
all  aslant.  And  hosts  of  little  wild-flowers  are  peeping  into  his 
eyes.  They,  too,  would  live  !  They,  too,  will  become  a  con- 
scious loveliness  if  he  but  looks  on  them.  He  does  look.  Every- 
thing in  creation  has  its  accomplished  and  exalted  being  in  the 
consciousness  of  man.  If  the  silent  waters  move  mystically, 
if  the  murmuring  waters  murmur  peace,  if  the  torrent  and  the 
waterfall  speak  of  power,  it  is  only  as  they  flow  and  murmur 
through  his  thoughts.  In  him  they  become  mystery,  and  peace, 
and  power. 


202  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

But  the  poet  departs.  He  vanishes  like  the  mist ;  he 
withers  like  the.  leaf.  Aye,  but  another  and  another  poet  will 
lie  on  those  moss-covered  rocks.  This  living  man  will  transmit 
his  life.  He  will  improve  it  before  he  transmits.  His  life  is 
always  the  greater  in  just  such  proportion  as  he  can  feel  him- 
self one  in  the  great  whole  of  humanity.  (Pages  376,  377.) 

But  Luxinore  himself  immediately  renounces  this  self- 
renunciation  :  — 

After  a  pause,  in  which  Luxmore  had  been  busily  occupied 
in  cleaning  and  loading  a  brace  of  pistols,  he  broke  out  again, 
and  in  a  very  different  strain.  The  revolvers  had  evidently 
something  to  do  with  the  transition. 

"  See  here !  "  he  said,  "  I  am  prepared  to  defend  my  little 
spark  of  life  by  blowing  into  dust  and  ashes  any  one  who  as- 
sails me. 

44  It  won't  do,  Thorndale  !  This  impersonal  and  pantheistic 
way  of  thinking  does  not  accord  with  our  nature  ;  not,  at  least, 
with  the  nature  of  an  Englishman.  We  live  self-centred.  / 
am  'more  than  a  life ;  I  am  the  somewhat  who  has  the  life, 
and  means  to  keep  it.  This  little  word  /  has  a  wonderful  mean- 
ing and  potency  in  it.  All.  our  heroism  or  greatness  dies  out 
if  this  little  word  loses  its  power  with  us.  What  is  our  im- 
mortality but  a  sublime  egotism  ?  The  old  Saxon  king  spoke 
best :  We  flutter  in  at  the  one  window,  and  spread  our  wings, 
and  fly  forth  at  the  other,  into  infinite  space.  I  shall  keep  my 
faith  in  the  mystical  /.  Each  individual  man  stands  eternally 
face  to  face  with  a  created  nature.  He  receives  it  all,  learns 
from  it  all,  and  stands  also  in  clear  contrast  to  it  all.  That 
seeming  contradiction  is  the  secret  of  his  greatness.  There  you 
have  '  my  last  word.'  "  (Page  378.) 

Thorndale,  in  his  Diary,  states  thus  the  ground  for  his 
own  hope :  — 

As  a  speculative  reasoner,  I  should  say  that  this  great  hope 
develops  itself  out  of  the  knowledge  and  contemplation  of  God, 
coupled  with  our  moral  aspirations.  To  live  in  felt  harmony 
with  the  good  of  the  whole  is  our  highest  morality,  and  also  our 
point  of  communion  with  God.  The  desire  for  further  knowl- 


"THORNDALE."  203 

edge  of  our  Creator,  and  for  this  perfect  life  (I  must  consider 
these  together  as  forming  one  desire,  or  one  state  of  mind,  be- 
cause a  wish  for  moral  perfection  alone  might  refer  solely  to 
this  world),  brings  and  justifies  a  faith  in  immortality.  (Page 
46.) 

His  greatest  discouragement  is  mankind's  seeming  un- 
worthiness  of  so  high  a  destiny. 

The  hardest  trial  to  our  faith  is  the  actual  aspect  of  the  liv- 
ing multitudes  of  mankind.  Looking  round  the  world,  it  is 
very  hard  to  find  one's  immortals,  or  celestials  that  are  to  be. 
Not  always  do  men  seem  worthy  of  living  even  on  this  earth, 
which  one  might  imagine  to  be  more  like  heaven  than  they  are 
akin  to  angels.  Sometimes  it  rather  seems  as  if  the  earth  were 
waiting  for  its  fit  inhabitants,  than  that  its  present  inhabitants 
were  entitled  to  spurn  the  world  beneath  them  in  their  haste  to 
ascend  into  a  better. 

I  raise  my  eyes  from  my  paper  and  what  a  beautiful  vision 
lies  before  me  !  The  blue  sky  reflected  on  these  ample  waters 
gives  me  a  double  heaven,  one  above  and  one  beneath  me ;  and 
these  islands  of  enchantment,  Ischia  and  Capri,  seem  to  be  sus- 
pended, floating  midway  between  them.  And  now  the  whole 
surface  of  the  sea  is  glowing  like  one  entire  sapphire,  on  which 
a  thousand  rainbows  have  been  thrown  and  broken.  "  Surely," 
I  exclaim,  "  here,  if  anywhere,  man  might  have  been  immor- 
tal!  " 

Yet  if  I  descend  from  my  solitude,  and  pass  through  yonder 
neighbouring  city,  I  shall  find  myself  amidst  a  noisy,  angry,  quar- 
relsome multitude,  each  one  of  whom  would  think  it  the  grossest 
insult  if  I  doubted  that  he  was  an  immortal  spirit  waiting  to  put 
on  his  angelic  nature  "  in  another  and  better  world."  Pity  he 
cannot  put  on  a  little  of  it  here.  What  does  this  world  want 
but  that  he  and  his  fellow-men  should  be  somewhat  better  than 
they  are  ?  (Page  55.) 

He  distrusts  even  the  presage  given  by  friendship  and 
love,  because,  alas,  friendship  and  love  themselves  appear 
to  him  frail  and  mutable. 

In  a  book  which  I  have  just  laid  down,  and  where  the  author 


204  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

was  arguing  this  very  subject,  I  met  with  the  following  pas- 
sage :  "  How  cruel  would  it  be  if  friendships  formed  on  earth 
should  be  extinguished  on  the  borders  of  the  grave  ! " 

This  is  the  natural  language,  I  presume,  of  ardent  feeling. 
Yet,  in  reality,  how  few  of  our  friendships  last  so  long  as  to  be 
carried  to  the  borders  of  the  grave !  How  often  do  they  suffer 
a  speedier  and  far  more  cruel  extinction !  Are  there  many  of 
us  to  whom,  on  disembarking  on  that  other  shore,  a  hand  could 
be  extended  on  which  we  would  swear  an  eternal  friend- 
ship ?  (Page  47.) 

Two  lovers,  soon  after  their  happy  union,  are  separated  by 
death.  How  vivid  is  the  faith  of  the  survivor  that  they  shall 
meet  again  !  Surely  somewhere  they  shall  be  reunited.  Is  there 
not  space  enough,  are  there  not  stars  enough  in  the  wide 
heavens  ?  And  all  they  want  is  a  little  space  to  love  in,  some 
foothold  given  them  in  the  creation.  All  the  rest  of  their  eter- 
nal joy  they  carry  with  them ;  such  joy  as  it  would  surely  be 
amazing  waste  and  prodigality  to  let  fall  out  of  the  universe. 

What  if  they  had  lived  and  loved  a  little  longer  on  the 
earth  ?  Perhaps  the  star  would  not  have  been  wanted.  (Page 
49.) 

But  the  soul's  aspiration  toward  God,  toward  knowl- 
edge of  Him  and  union  with  Him,  points  to  a  future 
fruition. 

Here  is  a  want  felt  imperatively  by  each  reflective  soul,  and 
which  never  will  be  gratified  on  earth. 

If  I  were  therefore  asked  for  my  ground  of  belief  in  the 
second  great  doctrine  of  religion,  I  should  say  it  was  involved 
in  the  first ;  it  follows,  I  think,  as  a  corollary  from  a  belief  in 
God. 

Nay,  even  the  terrible  anxiety  which  sometimes  seizes  us  to 
know  whether  a  God  exists  or  not  brings  with  it  a  sudden  and 
imperious  conviction  in  some  future  condition  of  our  being  in 
which  we  shall  know.  It  would  stand  alone  in  nature  if  a 
thinking  being  should  be  born  into  this  great  scheme  of  things, 
where  all  is  fit  and  harmonious,  with  one  burning  question  for- 
ever in  his  heart,  which  was  never  to  be  solved.  If  I  ever 
touched  for  a  moment  the  borders  of  complete  scepticism,  I  felt 


"THORNDALE."  205 

at  that  moment  the  impossibility  that  I  could  altogether  die  — 
that  I  could  become  extinct  with  this  uuremoved  ignorance  upon 
my  soul.  (Pages  51,  52.) 

I  never  could  look  long  upon  the  stars,  and  not  feel  that  I 
claimed  some  kindred  with  the  infinite  and  the  eternal.  Why 
am  I  vexed  incessantly  with  this  question,  "  Mortal  or  immortal," 
if  nothing  is  to  come  of  it  ?  Or  who  can  think  upon  that  other 
and  greater  problem  —  the  nature  of  Him  who  perchance  sits 
central  amidst  the  stars  —  and  not  feel  that  a  creature  who  can 
—  who  must  —  state  such  problems  to  himself  is  surely  destined, 
one  day,  somewhere,  to  have  them  solved  for  him  ? 

Oh,  yes  !  believe  it !  —  believe  it !  —  there  is  an  eternal  life 
within  us.  It  will  burn  on !  —  it  is  akin  to  those  stars. 

And,  Clarence,  you  are  right !  As  men  grow  better  on  the 
earth,  they  will  grow  more  confident  in  their  great  hope  of  im- 
mortality. They  will  support  it  in  each  other  and  in  them- 
selves. Have  I  not  said  that  the  aspect  of  the  living  world  was 
the  .conspicuous  cause  of  our  despondency  ?  Here,  as  elsewhere, 
we  meet  with  that  reciprocal  action  that  encounters  us  through- 
out in  this  great  organic  growth  of  society  ;  the  faith  that  ele- 
vates our  morality  is  again  confirmed  and  animated  by  the 
higher  morality  it  has  assisted  to  produce.  (Page  57.) 

This  last  thought  is  a  most  characteristic  feature  of 
his  belief  in  progress.  That  belief  has  been  held  by  many 
as  affording  a  substitute  for  any  other  religion.  But,  in 
our  author's  mind,  connected  with  human  progress  is  the 
belief  that  along  with  it  will  come  a  stronger  and  purer 
faith  and  hope  of  realities  beyond  this  world.  Of  the 
fact  of  social  progress  —  to  revert  again  to  this  central 
topic  —  he  finds  a  striking  evidence  in  the  growth,  in  the 
England  of  to-day,  of  the  sentiment  of  devotion  to  "  the 
good  of  the  whole."  "  The  good  of  the  whole  "  —  that 
must  be  the  watchword  of  advancing  society :  that  is  the 
abiding  foundation  of  morality  and  religion. 

Glance  now  at  the  state  of  opinion  in  England,  and  say  if  I 
am  fabling,  or  dealing  with  some  figment  of  the  imagination, 
when  I  pronounce  that  "  the  good  of  the  whole  "  has  become  a 


206  WILLIAM   SMITH. 

noble  care  to  very  many  amongst  us.  To  me,  looking  abroad 
amongst  my  contemporaries,  nothing  so  conspicuously  character- 
izes our  age  as  the  number  of  noble  minds  you  see  in  it  full  of 
the  desire  to  promote  the  general  good.  In  this  habit  of  think- 
ing for  the  good  of  society,  you  would  say,  indeed,  that  most  of 
us  had  become  philosophers.  Modes  of  thinking  which,  in  the 
palmy  days  of  Greece,  were  familiar  only  to  a  few  men,  who 
might  have  been  packed  together  under  a  single  portico  of  one 
of  their  own  beautiful  temples,  are  as  common  amongst  us  as  the 
cries  of  the  market-place.  Notice  how  generally,  by  rich  and 
poor,  by  learned  and  simple,  the  claim  is  admitted  which  society 
has  on  each  one  of  us  for  his  contribution  to  the  public  good. 
It  is  felt  that  each  one  of  us  owes  all  he  has,  and  all  he  is,  to 
society,  and  that  he  is  bound  to  contribute  his  best  of  labour  and 
intelligence  to  that  organized  community  which  is  at  once  result 
and  source  of  every  individual  life.  That  man  does  not  belong 
to  our  age  who  does  not  manifest  an  extreme  reluctance  to  be 
included  in  the  class  of  idle  men.  He  is  not  idle!  He  repu- 
diates the  odious  distinction.  If  he  does  not  work  with  his  hands, 
he  manages,  he  overlooks,  he  combines  the  labours  of  others.  If 
he  has  no  land  or  factory,  he  makes  for  himself  an  occupation 
in  some  philanthropic  scheme.  He  builds  a  school,  or  helps  to 
erect  a  public  bath  —  he  collects  and  distributes  judiciously  the 
charitable  alms  of  others  —  he  is  busy  at  a  Savings  Bank  —  he 
is  heart  and  soul  in  some  Reformatory.  If  he  can  do  nothing 
else,  he  writes  a  book.  Having  nothing  to  give  but  his  ideas, 
he  gives  them.  And  say  he  has  nothing  of  his  own  to  give 
even  here,  he  can  disseminate  amongst  the  many  the  truths  of 
the  few.  By  some  plea  he  escapes  the  stigma  of  idleness. 
(Pages  559,  560.) 

And  here  is  the  perpetual  incentive  to  social  virtue,  and 
the  incentive  also  to  hope  :  — 

All  society  must  advance,  in  order  that  any  class  may  reach 
its  highest  possible  development.  It  seems  that  it  never  is  al- 
lowed for  any  one  little  group  or  knot  of  men  to  rest  content 
with  their  own  isolated  position.  Such  is  not  nature's  plan. 
Whether  we  look  to  the  health  of  a  man,  or  the  wisdom  of  a 
man,  we  find  that  it  is  not  permitted  him  to  be  well,  or  wise, 
alone. 


« THORNDALE."  207 

Our  Dives  —  I  have  sometimes  said  to  myself  —  is  no  bad 
man.  He  is  charitable.  What  if  he  encloses  his  mansion  and 
his  pleasant  grounds  within  high  walls,  and  thus  seems  to  remove 
himself  entirely  from  the  squalid  poverty  without,  —  he  surely 
must  have  quiet  and  cleanliness,  pure  air,  and  freedom  from 
loathsome  sights.  Those  hovels  outside  his  garden  walls  would 
be  miserable  things  to  look  at,  and  would  offend  all  senses  at 
once.  He  is  distressed  that  such  things  should  be  ;  but  he  can- 
not rebuild  the  whole  village,  and  if  he  did,  he  must  add  thereto 
the  remodelling  of  the  habits  of  the  villagers.  He  must  inter- 
pose between  him  and  them  that  screen  of  beautiful  trees  pre- 
served by  his  protection,  and  which  are  not  preserved  for  his 
pleasure  only.  Even  the  eloquent  preacher  who,  Sunday  by 
Sunday,  collects  both  rich  and  poor  under  the  same  sacred  roof, 
can  suggest  no  remedy  —  suggests  only  palliatives  —  charity  to 
the  one  party,  and  patience  to  the  other.  He  sees  that  to  de- 
stroy altogether  the  condition  of  Dives,  by  calling  on  him  for  an 
unbounded  charity  —  to  give  all  he  has  to  the  poor  —  would  be 
simply  to  reduce  us  all  to  one  barbarous  level  of  poverty  and  ig- 
norance. The  existing  plan  must  remain  —  we  must  be  content 
with  palliatives. 

But  nature  is  not  content  with  our  palliatives.  The  rich  man 
may  be  blameless,  and  the  eloquent  and  the  wise  may  have  done 
all  they  could ;  nevertheless,  nature  makes  her  protest.  Out 
breaks  the  plague  !  It  comes  from  those  hovels,  and  from  the 
stagnant  pool  that  lies  amongst  them,  but  it  sweeps  over  the 
garden  wall  of  the  refined  patrician  ;  it  traverses  those  pleasant 
grounds,  enters  the  chambers  of  that  spacious  mansion,  and  the 
dear  child  of  the  house  lies  stricken  by  it.  Typhus  and  other 
fevers  will  not  always  stay  in  the  hovels  in  which  they  are  bred. 

Those  hovels  should  have  been  rebuilt ;  that  stagnant  pool 
that  lies  amongst  them  should  have  been  drained.  By  whom  ? 
It  should  have  been  done  !  But  who  was  to  do  it  ?  It  should 
have  been  done  !  Such  inexorable  protest  is  nature  accustomed 
to  make. 

And  as  with  health  of  body,  so  with  health  of  mind.  Look 
narrowly  into  it.  The  intellectual  Dives  would  shut  himself  up 
in  the  pleasant  garden  of  his  own  thoughts  —  pleasant  garden, 
walled  round  from  the  turbulent  passions,  the  superstitions,  and 


208  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

the  panic  terrors  of  mankind  —  open  only  to  the  calm  and  glo- 
rious heavens.  All  in  vain.  Those  panic  terrors  leap  his  walls, 
and  enter  every  chamber  of  his  house,  every  chamber  of  his 
thoughts.  They  were  bred  in  that  crime,  and  ignorance,  and 
suffering,  that  lies  weltering  there  without ;  but  they  do  not  stay 
where  they  are  bred  —  they  walk  abroad  through  the  minds  of 
all  men.  That  swamp  of  ignorance  and  vice  should  have  been 
drained.  By  whom  ?  It  should  have  been  done.  This  is  the 
only  answer  that  you  get.  There  is  no  perfect  immunity  to  any 
man,  from  any  kind  of  pestilence,  till  the  whole  city  is  taken 
care  of.  (Pages  565-567.) 

From  these  broad  outlooks  we  come  back  to  group  a  few 
personal  utterances :  — 

Refine  !  refine !  Live  only  in  the  higher  meditative  regions 
of  the  soul !  It  sounds  like  good  advice.  But  with  the  last 
dross  goes  the  last  strength.  Your  passionless  thought  leaves 
you  without  a  thing  to  cling  to  —  or  to  be  ;  you  are  all  —  you 
are  nothing.  Mere  thinking  throws  you  abroad  upon  the  winds 
—  flings  you  to  the  stars,  if  you  will  —  but  you  are  homeless 
and  purposeless  there  as  you  were  upon  the  earth.  (Page  46.) 

This  beautiful  external  nature,  these  still  waters,  these  majes- 
tic hills,  I  have  not  been  worthy  of  them.  Where  was  the  peace 
of  mind,  where  the  greatness  and  tranquillity,  where  the  noble, 
free,  useful  activity  which  all  nature  symbolizes  ?  Not  in  me  ! 
not  in  me  !  or  only  for  an  instant.  On  my  best  hours  such  lit- 
tle thoughts,  such  littles  cares  intruded.  I  have  flowed  weak  as 
water.  Any  straw  could  turn  me.  A  jest,  a  look,  a  laugh  has 
thrown  trouble  into  my  soul ;  a  pain,  a  lassitude,  a  sick  and 
morbid  feeling,  has  changed  the  current  of  a  whole  philosophy. 

We  would  be  gazing  upward  and  around  at  some  divine 
spectacle  —  gazing  with  calm  and  dilated  souls  —  and  lo  !  there 
is  eveY  some  thorn  in  the  sandal  we  must  first  stoop  to  extract. 
(Page  57.) 

Stand  aside  from  the  crowd,  and  look  on  —  have  no  other 
business  than  to  look  on  —  how  mad  and  preposterous,  how  pur- 
poseless and  inexplicable,  will  the  whole  scene  of  human  life  ap- 
pear! 

"  How  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable 
All  the  uses  of  this  world  !  " 


"  THORNDALE."  209 

Step  down  into  the  crowd ;  choose  a  path,  or  let  accident 
choose  for  you  ;  be  one  of  the  jostling  multitude  ;  have  wishes 
and  a  pursuit ;  and  how  full  of  meaning  and  purpose  has  it  all 
become  !  This  labyrinth  of  life  is  ever  a  straight  path  to  him 
who  keeps  walking.  (Page  45.) 

Last  of  all,  we  bring  together  a  few  of  the  book's  many 
words  of  "  religion  pure  and  undefiled." 

Shall  I  tell  you  what  religion  is  in  its  broadest  definition  ? 
It  is  life  cultivated  under  God,  and  in  the  presence  of  death. 
Forget  death,  and  there  would  be  little  or  no  religion.  Forget 
life,  and  religion  is  an  empty  spectre  —  a  mere  terror,  best 
buried  in  the  tomb,  which  it  will  then  perpetually  haunt.  (Page 
60.) 

All  religion  [it  is  Cyril  the  monk  who  speaks]  hangs  on  the 
belief  in  God's  righteous  anger  against  sin.  Once  quibble  that 
away,  and  you  may  be  Deist,  Pantheist,  Atheist  —  what  you 
will  —  it  matters  little.  (Page  232.) 

Cyril  said  another  time,  "  Even  Infinite  Love  and  Infinite 
Compassion  must  strike  a  guilty  race  with  terror  and  remorse. 
This  transgressing  world,  since  the  day  of  its  sin,  has  seen,  and 
could  see,  nothing  so  awful  as  that  mild  Presence  which  walked 
forth  from  the  village  of  Nazareth.  Under  that  naked  footfall 
the  earth  trembles  still. 

"  It  trembles  because  it  is  impure.  It  rejoices  as  it  throws 
off  its  impurity.  If  I  told  the  sinner  in  his  sins  that  he  would 
one  day.  and  through  the  intervention  of  that  very  Being,  be  a 
glorified  saint,  he  could  not  believe  it.  The  infinite  terror  of  his 
guilt  must  come,  and  pass  away,  before  he  could  believe  it. 
But,"  he  added,  speaking  in  a  lower  tone,  as  if  it  were  some 
inner  doctrine  that  he  ventured  to  announce,  —  "  but  I  think  it 
has  been  revealed  to  me  that  every  soul  that  God  has  made 
shall  finally  be  brought  under  the  dominion  of  wisdom  and  of 
love.  This  I  have  at  length  authoritatively  learnt  in  the 
stillness  of  my  monastery,  and  in  solitary  walks  by  the  seashore. 
If  I  were  to  say  that  Christ  himself  had  taught  it  to  me,  you 
would  smile  at  my  enthusiasm  :  yet  something  like  this  I  feel  to 
be  the  truth."  (Page  233.) 

God  never  pardons  :  the  laws  of  his  universe  are  irrevocable. 


210  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

God  always  pardons  :  sense  of  condemnation  is  but  another 
word  for  penitence,  and  penitence  is  already  new  life.  (Pages 
279,  280.) 

Who  that  has  cultivated  a  high  and  reflective  piety  has  not 
recognized  that  Religion  does  not  first  of  all  consist  in  hope  of 
a  future  life,  but  consists  first  of  all  in  living  well  here  —  in  a 
certain  felt  relationship  with  God  —  in  that  happy,  grateful,  de- 
voted relationship  which  springs  from  knowledge  of  God's  world 
and  of  our  own  humanity  ?  (Page  144.) 

I  boldly  claim  for  the  future  generations  of  mankind  that  re- 
ligion which  our  best  and  purest  have  claimed  for  themselves, 
when  they  shall  ~be  saints  in  Heaven.  In  that  state  they  con- 
fess that  Goodness  and  Piety  are  their  own  ends  —  not  prepara- 
tion for  any  other  state  of  existence.  They  will  become  so  here. 
This  life  will  cease  to  be  regarded  chiefly  as  a  preparation  for 
another,  because  it  will  have  become  identified  with  that  other. 
If  we  are  immortal  souls,  we  are  immortal  here  ;  —  death  is  but 
our  great  progression  ;  —  let  us  begin  to  live  as  the  immortals 
should.  (Page  160.) 

"  Fear  first,"  said  the  Cistercian,  "  then  Hope,  is  the  impulse 
of  a  Christian  life.  Last  of  all,  the  Christian  life  itself  is  its 
own  motive.  There  comes  a  time  when  neither  Fear  nor  Hope 
is  necessary  to  the  pious  man  ;  but  he  loves  righteousness  for 
righteousness'  sake,  and  love  is  all  in  all.  It  is  not  joy  at. es- 
cape from  future  perdition  that  he  now  feels  ;  nor  is  it  hope  for 
some  untold  happiness  in  the  future  ;  it  is  a  present  rapture  of 
piety,  and  resignation,  and  love ;  a  present  that  fills  eternity.  It 
asks  nothing,  it  fears  nothing  ;  it  loves,  and  it  has  no  petition  to 
make.  God  takes  back  his  little  child  unto  himself  —  a  little 
child  that  has  no  fear,  and  is  all  trust."  (Page  234.) 

In  these  selections  we  have  sought  to  "  bring  into  har- 
mony what  seems  at  first  a  mere  conflict  of  opinions,"  and 
to  fairly  interpret  the  real  philosophy  of  the  author  of 
"  Thorndale."  But  we  have  omitted  from  this  epitome 
some  of  the  elements  of  personal  feeling  which  give  to  the 
book  its  color  and  atmosphere.  A  brief  introduction  rep- 
resents the  volume  as  consisting  of  a  manuscript  found  in 
the  desk  of  a  young  Englishman  who  had  died  near  Na- 


"  THORN  DALE:1  211 

pies.  This  is  Charles  Thorndale,  who  throughout  the  fol- 
lowing chapters  speaks  sometimes  in  the  first  person  and 
sometimes  as  reporting  his  companions.  He  writes  his 
story  in  the  seclusion  to  which  he  has  withdrawn  from  the 
world  to  await  the  termination  of  a  lingering  disease.  His 
dwelling  looks  down  on  the  city  and  the  bay  of  Naples. 
Most  appropriately  is  this  spot  selected,  in  a  region  where 
the  loveliness  of  nature  and  the  mixture  and  debasement 
of  humanity  are  brought  into  the  strongest  contrast.  With 
death  near  at  hand,  he  looks  on  the  scenes  he  is  about 
to  leave  with  a  heightened  interest,  and  with  a  singular 
absence  of  personal  hope  or  fear.  The  problems  of  exist- 
ence which  have  been  the  strongest  interest  of  his  life  are 
reviewed  in  solitude  and  in  calm.  He  chances  upon  Cyril, 
now  the  inmate  of  a  neighboring  monastery,  and  converses 
with  him.  Clarence,  too,  he  meets  again,  and  Clarence 
writes  out  for  him  a  full  exposition  of  his  theories.  Yet 
the  reader  feels  Thorndale  to  be  essentially  and  intensely 
alone.  Cyril  and  Clarence  talk  freely  with  him  upon  gen- 
eral subjects,  but  of  personal  ministration  or  personal 
sympathy  he  has  none  and  seems  to  want  none.  His 
"  good  Bernard  "  —  valet,  cook,  and  nurse  —  is  casually 
mentioned  as  the  only  domestic  companion  he  has  or 
needs.  The  pathos  of  this  solitude  touches  the  reader 
the  more  keenly  because  it  is  borne  with  such  unconscious- 
ness, as  if  through  long  familiarity  it  had  ceased  to  be 
recognized. 

As  the  story  of  the  debates  is  rehearsed,  each  speak- 
er's opinion  given  as  forcibly  as  if  the  author  were  speak- 
ing his  inmost  thought,  the  impression  of  doubt  and 
perplexity  which  the  reader  receives  is  indicated  as  the 
effect  also  upon  Thorndale  himself.  Certain  convictions 
gain  an  ascendency  in  him  ;  he  sets  forth  the  material  of 
an  affirmative  and  strong  philosophy.  Yet,  as  he  is 
summed  up  by  the  old  acquaintance  who  finds  and  pub- 
lishes his  manuscript,  — 


212  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

He  was  one  of  those  who  cannot  rest  a  moment  in  denial,  and 
who  yet  find  preeminently 

"  how  difficult  it  is  to  keep 
Heights  which  the  soul  is  competent  to  gain." 

His  foothold  was  forever  giving  away ;  he  rose  only  to  fall 
again  —  but,  in  falling,  his  eye  was  still,  and  forever,  fixed  upon 
the  summit.  In  what  conclusion  did  he  finally  rest  ?  What 
fate  did  he  prophesy  to  the  individual  human  soul  or  to  congre- 
gated humanity  ?  Heaven  or  Utopia,  or  both  ?  Or  did  he  to 
the  last  continue  to  doubt,  to  hope,  to  aspire,  and  then  again 
throw  away  his  aspirations  ?  —  say  rather  give  them  away  to 
some  other  and  happier  mind,  and  love  them  there,  though  he 
could  not  retain  them  for  himself  ?  (Page  9.) 

One  passage  in  the  Introduction,  descriptive  of  Charles 
Thorndale,  gives  an  inmost  self -revelation  of  William 
Smith  :  — 

That  noble  sorrow  which  falls  occasionally  on  every  sincere 
inquirer  who  finds  himself  baffled  in  his  search  for  truth  had 
taken  up  a  very  constant  position  in  his  mind.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  dislodge  it.  He  had  no  personal  ambition,  no  domestic 
bonds,  no  duties,  no  cares.  Life  had  no  interest  if  philosophy 
could  yield  no  truth.  .  .  .  Perhaps  the  only  strong  desire  he 
had  was  this,  of  penetrating  to  certain  great  truths  which  seemed 
to  lie  just  hidden  from  our  sight.  He  walked  like  a  shadow 
amongst  us.  ...  It  was  plain  that  there  was  at  least  vitality 
enough  left  in  the  man  to  make  this  absence  of  all  passion  or 
motive,  whether  of  ambition  or  love,  itself  a  terrible  calamity. 
(Page  5.) 

These  passages  give  the  keynote  of  a  melancholy  which 
pervades  the  more  personal  portions  of  the  book,  and  which 
strongly  affects  the  reader. 

In  some  of  its  finest  utterances  "  Thorndale  "  declares 
that  peace  of  heart  comes  only  through  Tightness  of  con- 
duct. It  lays  strong  emphasis  on  social  virtue.  But  as  a 
whole  it  mirrors  the  author's  separation  from  the  activities 
of  life.  Even  in  its  theories,  it  seems  to  make  too  little  ac- 


"  THORNDALEr  213 

count  of  the  legitimate  effect  of  action  upon  thought  and 
faith.  It  makes  no  direct  /appeal  to  man's  personal  en- 
ergy. Its  hero  does  nothing  except  to  think.  He  listens, 
ponders,  —  and  retires  into  solitude  to  meditate  and  to  die. 

It  is  the  touch  of  heart  with  heart  that  gives  the  surest 
sense  of  one  supreme  Heart  of  all.  It  is  in  his  own  most 
vigorous  and  noble  action  that  man  feels  within  himself  as 
it  were  the  very  pulse  of  the  Divine  Energy.  And  the 
sadness  that  lies  deepest  on  Thorndale  arises  from  the 
seclusion  of  this  sweet  and  gentle  nature  from  its  kind, 
and  from  all  social  activity.  It  is  as  if  to  him  Thought 
and  Beauty  had  to  take  the  place  of  Action  and  Love  — 
a  place  they  can  never  fill.  Strangely  touching  it  is  to 
see  him  finding  his  reassurance  and  his  satisfaction  in  the 
advancing  good  of  humanity,  and  manifesting  to  the 
reader  so  lovable  a  quality  even  through  the  cold  medium 
of  the  printed  page,  yet  with  no  single  fellow-being  at 
his  side.  And  amid  the  various  play  of  his  thought  and 
feeling,  like  subtle  and  fascinating  music,  hardly  once  do 
we  hear  struck  the  full  rich  chord  of  happiness.  He 
speaks  of  "  the  highest  enjoyment  we  possess,  the  luxury 
and  the  triumph  of  thinking."  Is  that,  O  wise  philoso- 
pher, the  highest  enjoyment  you  have  found  ?  Then  there 
is  a  joy  you  have  not  tasted,  and  a  light  to  which  your 
eyes  have  not  opened. 

Yet  this  man,  isolated  from  the  great  company  of  work- 
ers and  worshippers,  is  one  of  the  scattered  pioneers  whose 
quests  and  labors  are  contributing  to  the  nobler  temple 
which  is  rising  for  the  society  of  the  future.  The  old 
dwelling-place  can  no  longer  house  all  its  children  ;  and 
while  some  of  them  abide  and  enlarge  and  refit,  others 
must  face  the  wilderness  and  subdue  the  New  World.  To 
measure  the  service  of  the  men  of  William  Smith's  type, 
one  should  look  back  to  the  view  of  the  universe  in  which 
he  was  trained  as  a  youth,  and  which  then  was  gener- 
ally accepted  by  the  religious  community.  Contrast  with 


214  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

Thorndale's  view  of  humanity,  doubtful  at  some  points, 
frankly  and  humbly  waiting  for  further  light,  but  with 
lucid  exposition  of  the  long  past,  and  grand  prediction  of 
society's  future,  with  the  recognition  of  every  element 
in  industry,  science,  art,  and  society,  as  well  as  nature,  as 
threads  in  a  divine  plan  whose  beneficence  exceeds  our 
measurement,  —  contrast  with  this  the  creed  impressed  on 
his  childhood,  so  over-confident  and  so  baseless  in  its 
assumption  of  authority,  so  fearful  of  unsparing  inquiry, 
so  restricted  in  its  ideals  of  character,  so  fantastic  in  its 
story  of  humanity's  beginnings,  and  with  a  prophecy  of 
futurity  mingling  with  its  glories  such  ghastly  terrors.  By 
the  difference  between  these  two  conceptions,  we  may 
partly  measure  what  the  higher  mind  of  Europe  had 
gained  within  a  lifetime.  Yet  this  comparison  is  incom- 
plete. We  should  add  to  the  picture  another  way  of 
thought,  —  a  way  which  to-day  claims  to  dominate  the  in- 
telligence of  Europe,  —  the  view  of  life  from  which  God 
has  wholly  faded  out,  and  which  casts  aside  as  childish 
fancy  man's  hope  of  a  hereafter.  In  that  contrast  we 
shall  best  appreciate  the  service  of  one  who  in  full  face  of 
modern  thought,  and  preferring  always  sternest  truth  to 
kindest  delusion,  reached  not  only  a  noble  anticipation  for 
future  generations,  but  also  a  great  faith  in  God,  and  a 
tremulous,  reverent  hope  for  the  spirit's  future. 

We  have  dwelt  on  the  loneliness  which  "  Thorndale  " 
shows  in  its  author.  Pathetic  that  solitude  is,  yet  not 
without  a  great  and  lofty  cheer.  The  want  of  close  affec- 
tion and  active  occupation  casts  a  heavy  shadow  ;  but  in 
rising  out  of  all  personal  ambition  and  solicitude  into  a 
habitual  consideration  of  what  concerns  all  mankind, 
there  has  come  an  emancipation  of  the  spirit.  This 
watcher  on  a  mountain  height  —  like  the  seer  of  old, 
discerning  a  promised  land  not  for  himself  but  for  his 
people  —  asks  not  our  compassion  for  his  loneliness.  Be 
that  as  God  wills !  Eagerly  he  points  us  to  the  mighty 


«  THORNDA LE."  216 

spectacle  which  spreads  before  him.  The  mists  are  part- 
ing, darkness  is  fleeing,  and  behold,  this  great  human 
family  is  not  a  groping  and  distracted  host :  it  is  an  ad- 
vancing army,  divinely  ordered,  divinely  led. 


PART  II. 


Our  best  beliefs  from  best  affections  spring, 
And  solitude  is  ignorance. 

WILLIAM  SMITH  :   Guidone. 

How  do  I  love  thee  ?    Let  me  count  the  ways. 
I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and  height 
My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 
To  the  ends  of  Being  and  ideal  Grace. 
I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  every  day's 
Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candle  light. 
I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right; 
I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise; 
I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 
In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's  faith. 
I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 
With  my  lost  saints  —  I  love  thee  with  the  breath, 
Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life  !     And,  if  God  choose, 
I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 

MRS.  BROWNING. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

MEETING. 

THE  story  of  the  man's  life  has  been  told  partly  in  the 
words  of  his  wife,  as  she  wrote  it  in  the  early  days  of 
her  bereavement,  at  first  for  dear  friends  only,  then  yield- 
ing with  hesitancy  to  entreaties  that  it  should  be  given  to 
a  wider  circle.  And  now  there  lies  at  hand  the  fuller 
story  of  her  own  heart  in  its  springtime,  —  a  story  she 
wrote  out  at  a  later  time  for  her  solace.  Under  what  im- 
pulse it  was  written  is  told  in  its  opening  words  :  — 

"  My  husband,  my  all,  —  even  now,  '  despite  the  dis- 
tance and  the  dark,'  I  have  often  thought  of  writing  down 
more  fully  my  happy  memories  of  our  blended  life.  I 
will  begin  to-day  (March  27,  1875)  —  will  take  refuge  if 
I  may  from  the  unspeakable  sorrow  of  the  present  in  the 
glad  completeness  of  the  past. 

"  I  was  always  fond  of  looking  back  —  even  when,  with 
you  by  my  side,  the  now  was  better  than  any  then,  since 
you  said  you  loved  me  '  more  and  more.'  You  would 
point  me  to  the  future,  to  other  happy  years.  But  now, 
I  do  not  think  you  would  blame  me  for  seeking  some 
alleviation  for  a  grief  that  you  pitied  4  infinitely,  infi- 
nitely.' I  will  weave  into  my  narrative  of  facts  bits  of 
your  writings,  your  letters.  If  I  live  to  be  old,  to  be 
blind,  some  kind  soul  will  read  these  pages  to  me.  They 
will  help  me  to  bear  and  to  hope.  They  will  quicken  the 
failing  life.  It  may  be  too  that  our  nieces  may  find  them 
precious,  for  surely  it  is  good  for  all  to  dwell  upon  a  char- 
acter like  yours,  to  sympathize  with  my  love  of  you." 

And  so,  in  the  rare  intervals  when  she  was  quite  alone, 


220  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

through  the  next  four  years,  she  lived  out,  on  paper,  the 
time  from  the  first  meeting  of  the  two  until  the  wedding- 
day.  Parts  of  the  story  she  read  to  one  or  another  inti- 
mate friend,  and  the  whole  of  it  she  left  at  her  death  to  a 
beloved  niece  of  her  husband's,  giving  it  to  her  absolute 
disposal.  She  was  a  woman  completely  retired  from  pub- 
licity, without  a  spark  of  literary  ambition  for  herself, 
and  never  entertaining  a  thought  of  self-disclosure  except 
to  friends ;  but,  as  to  her  husband,  divided  between  a 
sympathy  with  his  own  aversion  to  conspicuousness,  and 
a  wish  that  others  might  know  his  worth.  In  her  words 
above  quoted  —  "  Surely  it  is  good  for  all  to  dwell  upon  a 
character  like  yours,  to  sympathize  with  my  love  for  you  " 
—  may  be  seen  some  vague  idea  that  others  beside  the 
nieces  might  possibly  hear  this  fuller  story.  But,  once 
embarked  in  the  telling,  it  is  plain  that  all  auditors  were 
forgotten  —  the  flow  of  memory  took  its  way  as  spontane- 
ous, as  unchecked,  as  the  heart  beats. 

In  the  next  three  chapters  two  strands  are  woven  to- 
gether, one  from  the  Memoir,  the  other  from  the  Man- 
uscript. Among  the  passages  omitted  from  the  latter 
are  most  of  the  interspersed  expressions  which  tell  of 
aching  loss.  That  belongs  to  a  later  time.  Here  shall 
be  given,  almost  unshadowed  by  after  years,  the  story  of 
love's  happy  beginning. 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

It  was  in  the  August  of  1856  that  William  Smith  and 
his  future  wife  first  became  acquainted.  My  beloved 
mother,  —  at  that  time  a  complete  invalid,  —  a  little  niece 
of  mine  who  then  lived  with  us,  and  I  had  been  spending 
the  early  summer  in  Borrowdale,  and  we  too,  attracted  by 
the  new  and  cheerful  row  of  lodging-houses,  now  took  up 
our  abode  at  3  Derwentwater  Place.  The  solitary  stu- 
dent, to  whom  I  confess  I  not  a  little  grudged  the  draw- 
ing-room floor,  soon  sent  to  proffer  one  request  —  that  the 


MEETING.  221 

little  girl  would  not  practise  her  scales,  etc.,  during  the 
morning  hours.  Now  and  then  we  used  to  pass  him  in 
our  walks,  but  he  evidently  never  so  much  as  saw  us. 
There  was  something  quite  unusual  in  the  rapt  abstrac- 
tion of  his  air,  the  floating  lightness  of  his  step ;  one 
could  not  help  wondering  a  little  who  and  what  he  was, 
but  for  several  weeks  nothing  seemed  more  entirely  un- 
likely than  our  becoming  acquainted. 

The  lodging-place  that  we  all  occupied  was  kept  by  a 
mother  and  two  daughters,  who  had  had  a  reverse  of  for- 
tune, and  to  whom  this  way  of  life  was  new.  We  were 
their  first  tenants.  One  of  the  daughters  especially  was 
well  educated  and  interesting.  To  her  I  gave  a  copy  of 
Grillparzer's  "  Sappho,"  which  I  had  recently  translated. 
I  knew  she  would  value  it  a  little  for  my  sake,  but  it 
never  occurred  to  me  that  she  would  take  it  to  the  recluse 
in  the  drawing-room.  She  did  so,  however.  Piles  of 
manuscript  on  his  desk  had  convinced  her  that  he  was 
"  an  author,"  and  it  amused  her  to  show  him  the  little 
production  of  one  of  the  other  lodgers  !  Perhaps  he  may 
have  thought  that  she  did  this  at  my  request,  perhaps  his 
kindliness  disposed  him  to  help  by  a  hint  or  two  some 
humble  literary  aspirant  —  for  always  he  was  kind  ;  at 
all  events,  the  very  next  day  he  sent  down  a  message  pro- 
posing to  call,  and  on  the  21st  of  August  there  came  a 
knock  at  our  sitting-room  door ;  the  rapid  entrance  of  a 
slight  figure,  some  spell  of  simplicity  and  candor  in  voice 
and  manner  that  at  once  gave  a  sense  of  freedom ;  and 
the  give-and-take  of  easy  talk  —  beginning  with  com- 
ments on  the  translation  in  his  hand  —  had  already 
ranged  far  and  wide  before  he  rose,  and,  lightly  bowing, 
left  the  room.1  I  thought  him  absolutely  unlike  any  one 

1  One  little  observation  of  his  clung  to  my  memory,  and  returns 
to  it  very  often  in  my  present  loneliness  —  is  it  too  trivial  to  record  ? 
Discussing  the  building  instinct  in  insect  and  bird,  and  their  variety 
of  dwellings,  he  said,  "  The  primary  condition  of  the  home  is  that 
there  should  be  two" 


222  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

I  had  ever  met ;  singularly  pleasant  in  all  he  said ;  even 
more  singularly  encouraging  and  gracious  in  his  way  of 
listening.  He  pointed  out  a  passage  in  the  translated 
play  that  had  particularly  taken  his  fancy :  — 

"  Like  to  the  little  noiseless  garden  snail, 
At  once  the  home  and  dweller  in  the  home  ; 
Still  ready  —  at  the  very  slightest  sound  — 
Frightened,  to  draw  within  itself  again  ; 
Still  turning  tender  feelers  all  around, 
And  slow  to  venture  forth  on  surface  new  ; 
Yet  clinging  closely  if  it  cling  at  all, 
And  ne'er  its  hold  relaxing  —  but  in  death." 

I  have  transcribed  these  lines,  because,  in  after  days,  he 
was  much  given  playfully  to  designate  himself  "  The 
Snail."  At  the  close  of  this  first  call  I  well  remember 
that  my  mother,  who  had  been  reclining  the  while  in  an 
adjoining  room,  exclaimed  :  "  What  could  you  find  to  talk 
about  so  long,  my  dear  ?  one  might  have  thought  you  had 
known  each  other  for  years !  "  That  was  it !  To  certain 
natures  William  Smith,  from  the  first  moment  of  meeting, 
could  never  seem  a  stranger  !  The  call  was  soon  repeated, 
and  afterwards  he  came  three  times  in  the  evening,  as  then 
my  mother  was  able  to  see  him.  She  was  at  once  im- 
pressed with  his  charm  :  "  How  could  you  call  him  plain, 
my  dear  ?  he  has  one  of  the  most  delightful  countenances  I 
have  ever  seen !  "  The  dear  mother !  herself  a  sufferer  and 
grievously  depressed  for  two  years  past,  it  was  not  fre- 
quent at  that  time  to  hear  her  express  delight ;  but  she  was 
delighted  with  him  !  He  afterwards  told  me  that  just  then 
he  was  "  positively  starving  for  conversation."  Hence, 
perhaps,  his  effervescence  and  abandon.  On  one  of  these 
pleasant  evenings  he  read  us  some  of  "  Sartor  Resartus." 
He  gave  me  a  copy  of  his  Dramas,  and  the  day  we  left  Kes- 
wick  (just  a  fortnight  after  our  first  meeting)  he  took  me 
to  see  his  favorite  view  of  the  Lake  ;  and  we  talked  with 
the  perfect  unreserve  of  those  who  hold  themselves  little 


MEETING.  223 

likely  ever  to  meet  again.  He  spoke  much  of  his  mother, 
of  his  happy  home  with  her,  his  sense  of  isolation  since  he 
had  lost  her ;  spoke,  also,  a  little  of  his  literary  work  and 
religious  opinions.  I,  on  my  side,  told  him  of  my  family 
circumstances,  in  which,  too,  there  was  sadness  and  strug- 
gle. He  frankly  said  he  was  sorry  we  were  leaving ;  I 
did  not  say  to  any  one,  not  even  to  myself,  how  sorry  I 
was  to  go !  A  short  note  or  two  were  interchanged,  then 
came  a  longer  letter  telling  me  of  the  projected  departure 
for  Australia  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Weigall  and  their  daugh- 
ters, of  whom  he  was  especially  fond,  and  "  whose  house 
afforded  him  a  refuge  to  which  he  occasionally  fled  from 
this  wandering,  solitary  life."  No  wonder  that  he  added, 
"  To  me  this  is  no  little  affliction,  though  they  write  in 
good  spirits  ;  "  and,  "  I  think  you  will  have  a  little  com- 
passion for  me."  From  that  time  the  letters  grew  longer. 
We  planned  a  meeting  at  Patterdale  in  the  ensuing 
spring,  and  thither  he  duly  went.  My  mother,  however, 
preferred  the  prospect  of  an  Irish  tour  ;  and  I,  whose 
chief  solicitude  then  was  the  state  of  her  health,  never  let 
her  find  out  till  long  after  the  touch  of  disappointment  I 
could  not  help  feeling  at  being  unable  to  keep  tryst. 

I  will  give  a  few  passages  from  some  of  these  early  let- 
ters which  chanced  to  get  preserved  when,  at  his  earnest 
request,  I  burnt  the  correspondence  of  the  two  years  that 
intervened  between  our  first  and  second  meeting.  But  the 
extracts  no  more  show  the  charm  of  the  letters  than 
pulled-out  petals  the  beauty  of  a  flower.  The  first  gives 
a  glimpse  of  his  lonely  life  :  — 

That  other  book  you  alluded  to  we  should  agree  upon,  I  am 
sure.  I  think  there  are  passages  in  Charlotte  Bronte's  letters 
which  beat  all  the  letters  I  have  ever  read.  And  what  a  pic- 
ture !  what  a  family  group  in  the  little  rectory !  .  .  .  How 
thoroughly  I  could  sympathize  with  some  of  these  letters  in 
which  she  describes  her  own  solitude  !  How  many  hours  have 
I  passed  in  the  evening  with  the  candle  put  in  some  corner  of 


224  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

the  room,  because  my  eyes  could  no  longer  bear  the  light,  pa- 
cing up  and  down,  and  looking  out  at  the  clouds  —  if  fortunately 
there  were  any  clouds  to  be  seen !  I  have  rarely  been  more  in- 
terested in  any  book  than  this. 

Here  is  his  account  of  "  Thorndale,"  which  was  then  on 
the  point  of  publication  :  — 

The  book  —  the  libretto,  as  I  modestly  style  it  —  is  being 
printed,  but  it  goes  on  very  slowly.  It  will  be  only  one  volume, 
much  such  a  volume  as  one  of  the  new  edition  of  Professor  Wil- 
son's works.  The  title  is  to  be  "  Thorndale,"  or  "  Thorndale's 
Diary,"  —  the  last  title  will  tell  you  what  sort  of  work  it  is. 
Not  a  novel.  But  a  diary  admits  the  intermixture  of  some  inci- 
dents with  reflection.  It  closes  with  a  sort  of  Confession  of 
Faith,  or  view  of  human  progress,  which  is  a  sort  of  continuous 
essay.  Some  will  perhaps  read  up  to  this,  and  then  drop  the 
book  ;  others  would  be  satisfied  with  reading  this  last  part,  and 
leaving  the  rest  alone.  I  am  not  at  all  sanguine  about  its  suc- 
cess, —  I  never  have  succeeded  in  anything,  —  but  one  must  put 
forth  what  there  is  in  one's  mind,  be  it  much  or  little.  I  was 
quite  in  earnest  when  I  said  that  I  should  like  to  have  a  lady 
critic  at  my  elbow  ;  because  it  is  on  matters  of  taste,  style,  bits 
of  verse,  etc.,  that  I  should  particularly  want  to  consult  another. 
And  as  to  graver  matters,  although  there  are  some  few  men 
whose  opinions  would  be  invaluable,  they  are  very  few,  and 
quite  inaccessible.  Even  on  these  I  would  rather  have  the  im- 
pressions of  an  intelligent  woman  than  "  the  average  man,"  who 
is  not  at  all  impressible,  and  who  is  certainly  not  a  whit  wiser, 
or  more  disciplined  or  trained  to  thinking. 

The  following  extract  I  give  because  the  views  it  ex- 
presses about  India  were  held  by  him  to  the  end,  and  put 
out  in  the  last  article  he  ever  wrote  :  — 

Yes  !  this  terrible  revolt  in  India  must  occupy  all  thoughts. 
It  occupies  mine  a  good  deal,  but  to  very  little  purpose.  I  see 
that  the  national  revenge  of  England  must  have  its  course.  But 
our  Indian  Empire  has  never  been  a  great  favourite  of  mine.  I 
always  looked  at  it  as  leading  to  much  benefit,  in  one  way  or 
the  other,  to  India  itself,  but  as  having  little  to  do  with  the  real 


MEETING.  225 

power  and  prosperity  of  England.  I  myself  revolt  at  the 
scheme,  put  forth  by  some  writers  in  the  "  Times,"  of  governing 
India  entirely  by  foreign  troops,  presuming  this  were  possible. 
If  the  English  power  is  not  really  educating  Indians  so  that  they 
will  assume  one  day  an  independent  and  permanent  position 
among  the  nations,  I  really  see  no  justification  whatever  for  our 
conquests. 

It  was  in  the  autumn  of  1857  that  "  Thorndale  "  ap- 
peared. On  my  return  from  the  Irish  tour,  by  which  my 
dear  mother's  health  had  marvellously  benefited,  I  well  re- 
member going  into  an  Edinburgh  library  in  quest  of  some 
other  book,  and  having  "  Thorndale  "  recommended  me 
by  the  librarian  as  a  very  remarkable  work  indeed.  Be- 
fore long  the  author  sent  me  a  copy,  but  I  glanced  over  it 
merely  ;  I  did  not  read  it  for  some  months.  My  way  of 
religious  thinking,  perhaps  I  should  rather  say  of  feeling, 
led  me  to  shrink  from  any  disturbing  influence. 

My  husband's  contributions  to  "  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine "  were  suspended  from  the  April  of  1856  to  the  Jan- 
uary of  1858,  when  he  wrote  a  notice  of  a  translation  I 
had  made  of  Freytag's  "  Debit  and  Credit."  His  kindly 
encouragement  was  a  support  to  me  in  every  little  effort 
of  the  sort,  and  during  the  ensuing  spring  our  letters 
were  very  frequent.  We  told  each  other  all  our  interests, 
and  also  all  our  discouragements  and  difficulties.  I  well 
recollect  his  pleasantly  contrasting  our  lives  in  some  such 
words  as  these  :  "  You  are  in  a  good  roomy  boat,  rowing 
hard,  but  with  others  around  you ;  whilst  I  am  bobbing 
up  and  down  on  the  waves  alone,  with  only  a  life-belt  to 
trust  to."  Certainly  a  habit  of  confidence  had  been  very 
firmly  established  when  on  the  14th  of  July,  1858,  we  met 
again  at  Patterdale,  and  yet  neither  had  quite  distinct  or 
correct  impressions  of  the  other.  William  often  told  me  he 
could  never  identify  the  Patterdale  companion  with  the 
Keswick  acquaintance.  Nor  was  I  prepared  for  all  I  found 
in  him.  By  this  time  I  had  indeed  read  "  Thorndale,"  and 


226  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

had  felt  its  pathos  as  keenly  as  its  beauty.  In  the  letters  I 
had  been  accustomed  to  receive  there  was  almost  always  an 
undertone  of  sadness ;  but,  to  my  surprise,  their  writer  was 
cheerful  beyond  any  one  I  knew,  or,  at  least,  cheerful  with 
a  kind  of  cheerfulness  I  had  never  known  —  something 
akin  to  morning  sunlight,  the  soaring  song  of  larks,  the 
sportiveness  of  young  woodland  creatures.  I  cannot  de- 
scribe it,  but  it  effaced  for  me  all  memories  of  care  and  dis- 
appointment ;  it  made  the  whole  world  new.  Neither  was 
he  any  longer  inclined  to  be  solitary.  From  the  day  of  our 
first  cordial  meeting  to  that  of  my  mother's  and  my  depart- 
ure we  invariably  took  long  walks,  morning  and  evening, 
let  the  weather  be  what  it  would.  When  it  was  fine,  we 
sought  out  some,  exquisite  shade  of  birch-trees  on  high 
ground,  with  peeps  of  Ulleswater  through  the  branches,  or 
a  mossy  knoll  overhanging  a  "  lake-bend  of  river,"  or  a 
sequestered  grass  walk  beside  a  most  joyous  brook,  and  in 
such  scenes  as  these  he  would  read  to  me  by  the  hour,1  or 
I,  in  my  turn,  would  repeat  poetry  to  him.  When  it  was 
wet  we  would  put  up  with  any  shelter  we  could  find,  or 
talked  and  laughed  very  gayly  under  our  umbrellas.  We 
were  not,  however,  always  gay.  The  burden  of  loneliness 
was  far  more  painful  to  him  at  this  time  than  when  he 
first  resolved  to  endure  it.  In  one  of  our  early  walks  I 
can  recall  his  suddenly  bursting  out,  "  I  have  come  to 
envy  any  room  in  which  there  are  two  chairs !  " 

(From  the  Manuscript.) 

I  must  not  linger  over  every  walk,  though  each  was  a 
step  in  advance  in  the  sweet  mutual  confidence  and  singu- 

1  To  those  who  knew  William  Smith  it  is  unnecessary  to  dwell 
upon  the  charm  of  his  reading.  His  voice  was  singularly  flexible, 
varied,  and,  above  all,  pathetic.  He  himself  had  an  idea  that  he  suc- 
ceeded best  with  comic  subjects,  and  many  delighted  especially  in 
hearing  him  read  Dickens,  Sterne,  etc.  Yet  I  always  grudged  tho 
voice  to  anything  but  poetry  of  a  high  order. 


MEETING.  227 

lar  rapport  that  made  this  first  fortnight  the  gladdest  I  — 
and  I  may  say  he  too,  since  he  said  so  —  had  ever  known. 
During  it  I  never  suspected  that  I  more  than  liked  my 
companion.  Only  I  should  have  admitted  that  I  never 
had  so  enjoyed  companionship.  Everything  exhilarated 
us  —  even  the  long  darn  I  had  to  make  in  the  flounce  of 
a  muslin  gown  through  which  he  had  inadvertently  poked 
his  stick.  On  the  twenty-fourth,  we  had  our  second  walk 
to  lovely,  lovely  Deepdale,  and  he  read  me  bits  of  Shelley,  a 
few  loose  pages  of  which  he  generally  carried  in  his  pocket. 
That  evening,  too,  though  it  was  wet,  we  sat  on  stones  un- 
der trees.  He  told  me  much  of  his  early  life,  and  I  repeated 
some  of  Mrs.  Browning's  poems  to  him.  Afterward,  this 
repetition  of  poetry  that  he  liked  alternated  pretty  con- 
stantly with  the  exquisite  treat  of  hearing  him  read.  On 
Sundays  we  agreed  not  to  meet,  —  I  used  to  go  to  the 
church  with  my  beloved  mother.  On  Monday,  the  twenty- 
sixth,  the  evening  walk  was  in  the  rain,  and  I  recollect 
the  complete  insouciance  with  which  I  put  on  an  old  bat- 
tered, flapping,  and  most  unbecoming  Swiss  hat,  of  five 
summers'  wear.  For,  as  I  said,  no  conscious  desire  to  win 
more  than  his  cordial  liking  had  as  yet  interfered  with 
my  simple  pleasure  in  the  new  life,  the  fresher,  lighter, 
wider  range  of  thought  and  fancy.  We  were  standing  by 
some  rails  looking  across  the  lake,  —  I  do  not  know  what  we 
were  talking  of,  —  only,  he  suddenly  kissed  the  brim  of 
my  ugly  hat.  I  do  not  know  what  led  to  this  sudden  im- 
pulse, nor  whether  it  proceeded  from  any  consciousness 
that  I  was  dear  to  him,  but  I  do  know  well  the  wondrous 
effect.  The  years  rolled  off  me.  Instead  of  the  woman 
with  her  acceptance  of  a  colorless  life,  a  girl  in  soul  stood 
there,  beholding  earth  and  sky  new  created  and  very  good ! 
How  the  heart  beat  with  a  tumult  of  possibilities !  If  he 
loved  me  —  if!  I  knew  now  what  he  was  to  me.  It  was 
all  quite  plain.  The  strange  happiness  came  from  a  love 
so  different  from  any  I  had  felt  before,  it  was  not  strange 


228  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

I  had  not  guessed  its  nature  till  this  flash  of  transcendent 
brightness.  From  that  evening  the  light-hearted  enjoy- 
ment of  the  moment  was  over.  Every  word  he  spoke  was 
weighted  for  me  with  far-reaching  significance  :  "  He  loves 
me  —  he  loves  me  not."  Then,  too,  his  throat  became 
troublesome  the  very  next  day,  and  I  was  miserably  anx- 
ious. But  he  was  tractable,  he  adopted  the  simple  reme- 
dies I  prescribed,  he  let  me  minister  ;  and  in  a  day  or  two 
he  was  well,  reading  "  In  Memoriam  "  to  me,  —  I  hear 
the  thrilling  ring  of  his  voice  yet  in  the  lines  "  Ring  out 
wild  bells."  He  read  them  under  the  shade  of  an  old  and 
wide-spreading  birch,  —  I  wonder  if  it  is  still  standing. 
He  read  me  too  his  articles  on  White's  "  Christian  Cen- 
turies," and  Gladstone's  "  Homer,"  which  appeared  in 
the  August  number  of  "  Black  wood."  I  recollect  his  telling 
me  with*  that  childlike  openness  which  was  one  of  his  most 
endearing  attributes,  what  a  liberal  cheque  and  kind  letter 
he  had  had  in  consequence.  At  this  time  —  earlier  than  this 
indeed  —  he  constantly  exclaimed,  "  How  happily  the  days 
of  Thalaba  go  by !  "  Another  quotation,  spoken  with  a 
delightful  irrelevancy,  as  he  walked  backwards,  his  whole 
face  and  figure  radiant  with  joy,  was,  "  How  charming  is 
divine  Philosophy  !  "  I  cannot,  I  dare  not,  realize  it  any 
more.  But  the  remembrance  will  surely  quicken  my  heart 
and  mind  even  when  the  dying  languor  has  set  in ! 

From  the  first  I  had  been  rather  struck  with  the  em- 
phasis which  Mr.  Smith,  as  I  then  called  him  and  long 
after,  laid  upon  the  difference  three  hundred  a  year  might 
make  in  a  man's  destiny.  He  spoke  of  it  as  wealth,  and 
I  soon  inferred  that  his  own  income  fell  far  below  that 
moderate  standard.  In  one  of  his  stories  he  had  spoken 
of  a  confessed  poverty  as  an  equivalent  to  the  tonsure. 
Certainly  he  displayed  his  tonsure  all  he  could  !  And 
then  we  forgot  all  about  it  in  our  great  gladness,  and  he 
allowed  the  gracious  tenderness  and  caressingness  of  his 
nature  free  play.  A  friend,  Bessie  Bennett,  came  to  stay 


MEETING.  229 

with  us  three  weeks  after  this  mutual  life  had  begun,  and 
she  saw  his  wondrous  and  quite  peculiar  charm.  He  was 
always  in  high,  frolicsome  spirits  when  she  was  our  com- 
panion, the  talk  being  of  course  restricted  in  its  range ; 
but  she  was  so  loving  a  friend  of  "  Divine  Philosophy  " 
that  she  was  no  check  upon  his  cheerfulness.  After  Bessie 
left,  there  were  sometimes  alternations  on  his  part.  On 
mine  there  had  been  before,  but  I  hid  them  pretty  success- 
fully. I  remember  one  evening,  standing  by  the  bridge 
I  stand  on  now  alone,  that  he  spoke  with  apprehension  of 
the  poverty  and  loneliness  he  foresaw  in  the  future,  when 
he  could  "  make  bricks  "  no  longer,  —  that  is  write  for 
"Blackwood."  And  sometimes  I  think  he  would  take 
alarm,  —  how  if  the  tonsure  should  fain  to  warn,  and  the 
perfection  of  our  companionship  leave  a  want  and  a  sadness 
in  my  lot  ?  At  such  prudent  seasons,  the  sweet  names  and 
tones  would  cease,  and  after  a  walk  together,  and  much 
intelligent  talk  on  general  subjects,  I  returned  inwardly 
wretched  and  woke  in  tears.  However,  the  cautious  mood 
did  not  last  long,  —  a  bright  morning,  the  beauty  of  the 
hills,  the  togetherness,  banished  it  utterly.  I  think  he  did 
not  quite  guess  all  he  was  to  me.  Once  I  remember  him 
gracefully  flung  on  the  grass  at  my  feet,  looking  search- 
ingly  up  into  my  eyes,  and  saying,  "  I  wonder  if  she  is 
laughing  at  me  all  the  time ! "  Another  time  there  was  a 
thrilling  whisper,  "  CM  sa  se  mai  ti  soverrai  de  me  !  " 

I  have  just  come  across,  in  one  of  his  manuscript  books, 
a  passage  almost  identical  with  some  observations  he  made 
one  wet  summer  day  as  we  sat  on  the  flags  under  the  shel- 
ter of  the  veranda  of  Glen  Rhydding  House,  then  un- 
tenanted.  The  passage  is  :  "  When  we  speak  of  the  cold- 
ness of  a  philosophical  Deism,  recollect  that  hitherto 
woman  has  not  partaken  of  the  creed.  The  finer  sensibil- 
ities of  her  nature  have  not  clothed  it  for  us.  The  Chris- 
tian religion,  which  is  in  the  ascendant,  draws  to  itself 
the  womanly  heart.  If  the  manly  intellect  should  place 


230  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

Deism  in  the  place  of  Christianity,  the  womanly  heart 
will  follow,  and  invest  it  with  pathos  and  feeling."  On 
the  occasion  I  refer  to,  —  I  see  the  very  look  in  his  eyes, 
half  pleading,  half  pathetic,  —  he  said  in  reply  to  my  be- 
wailing the  coldness  of  the  simple  creed  :  "  Wait,  wait,  — 
till  mothers  have  taught  it  to  their  children." 

At  this  time  he  had  a  green  morocco  book  of  extracts, 
from  which  he  would  often  read  to  me.  There  were 
several  passages  from  Southey  in  it.  "  Not  to  the  grave, 
not  to  the  grave,  my  soul,"  was  one.  The  book  being 
lent  to  me,  I  was  pleased  to  find  an  extract  or  two  from 
letters  of  mine. 

It  was  a  characteristic  of  the  constant  nature  of  the 
man  —  in  thought  and  feeling  more  constant,  more  con- 
tinuous, more  consistent  with  his  higher  self  than  any  I 
have  known  —  to  prefer  repeating  the  old  delights  to  seek- 
ing after  new.  During  the  seven  weeks  spent  together 
the  variety  of  walks  was  not  great.  We  went  often  to 
"  Point  Perfection  "  on  Glen  Rhydding  Dod,  a  mossy  pla- 
teau well  sheltered  by  trees,  looking  straight  down  on  the 
lake,  and  with  fine  views  of  Place  Fell  and  the  other  hills 
caught  through  the  branches.  It  was  so  he  liked  his  views 
best,  —  always  he  needed  some  interposing  veil  to  deepen 
the  colors,  to  suggest  as  well  as  to  reveal.  "  The  half  is 
better  than  the  whole  "  was  a  frequent  utterance,  which  I 
secretly  found  a  little  sad.  Then  there  was  a  sweet  shaded 
knoll  overhanging  a  "  lake-like  bend  of  river,"  looking  to 
Hartsop  Dod.  Oftenest  of  all  we  went  to  "  our  dear 
brook  "  in  the  grounds  of  Patterdale  Hall.  Again  there 
was  Deepdale,  a  somewhat  longer  walk  ;  and  as  I  said  be- 
fore, a  favorite  birch-tree,  good  for  sitting  under  and  hear- 
ing "  In  Memoriam.  "  Our  poplars  "  were  often  visited, 
for  the  sake  of  the  exquisite  thrill  of  their  leaves  to  the 
lightest  summer  wind.  And  there  was  a  walk  on  the  Gras- 
mere  bridle  road,  with  peeps  of  the  rapid  brook  deep  below, 
where  we  had  a  habit  of  standing  long.  On  moonlight 


MEETING.  231 

nights  there  was  the  watching  the  clouds  from  the  church- 
yard. And  so  the  happy,  happy  time  —  fitfully,  painfully, 
yet  intensely  happy  time  —  stole  away,  and  the  day  of  part- 
ing had  to  be  fixed  ;  then,  by  mutual  consent,  not  spoken 
about  till  it  came.  Always  inferior  to  him,  I  did  not  then 
understand  his  impulse  to  put  away  the  painful  future  and 
to  live  in  the  light  of  the  present  only.  But  now  I  see 
that  this  habit  of  his  mind,  self-conquest,  become  a  law  of 
his  constitution,  was  one  of  the  secrets  of  his  singular 
charm.  You  had  the  whole  man  at  every  successive  mo- 
ment. His  joy  in  nature,  in  the  presence  of  the  human 
love,  —  to  him  ever  manifestations  of  something  higher,  — 
was  never  clouded  by  anticipation,  or  dulled  by  compari- 
son with  the  past.  Whatever  he  said  or  did  was  always 
spontaneous.  He  never  repeated  himself  or  divided  him- 
self. At  the  age  of  twenty  he  had  written  thus,  describ- 
ing a  beautiful  character  under  circumstances  that  strike 
as  a  curious  prevision  of  his  own :  "  He  is  never  looking 
forward  to  the  future,  never  resting  his  happiness  on  ex- 
pectation. He  enjoys  the  present  moment  as  though  it 
were  to  be  the  only  one  of  his  existence,  or  rather  he  lives 
in  time  as  though  he  were  already  in  eternity."  Very 
near  the  close  of  his  pure  life,  the  man  who  had  so  early 
discerned  the  secret  of  at  least  making  happy  said  to  the 
dear  niece  who  was  his  companion  in  one  of  the  last  drives, 
in  reply  to  her  expressed  apprehension  of  rain,  —  said, 
laying  his  wasted  hand  on  hers,  "  It  is  fine  now,  dear 
Vi!" 

And  so,  our  parting  was  kept  as  much  as  possible  out 
of  sight  while  we  were  together.  But  our  hearts  spoke 
out  more  and  more  fully  during  those  last  days.  On  the 
twenty-eighth  of  August  —  a  lovely  day,  and  lovely  night 
—  we  stood  side  by  side,  leaning  against  the  low  wall  of 
the  churchyard,  watching  the  moon  rise  behind  Place 
Fell,  herself  long  unseen.  She  threw  her  light  on  the 
soft  clouds  that  took  warm  color  of  inexpressible  beauty. 


232  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

I  never  see  those  tints  without  remembering  that  evening, 
even  through  all  the  happy  seeing  together  of  after  years. 
We  stood  silent,  or  I  cannot  remember  what  was  said. 
Only  he  whispered,  "  We  shall  never  forget  each  other 
now."  Then  came  the  sad  words,  "  But  I  am  as  power- 
less to  alter  my  destiny  as  to  lift  that  church."  That  I 
fully  accepted,  —  his  love  more  than  sufficed. 

Two  more  days  of  even  closer,  dearer  companionship, 
evenings  spent  with  him  at  Quarry  Bank  in  the  warm  fire- 
light glow.  For  my  share  in  them  —  I  find  recorded, 
"  Oh,  too  happy."  Wednesday,  the  first  of  September, 
was  the  parting  day.  We  walked  for  the  last  time  to  the 
sweet  spot  he  called  "  Point  Perfection."  He  read  me 
again  "  Ring  out,  wild  bells."  As  I  thought,  I  said  good- 
by  at  Quarry  Bank.  But  no,  he  came  to  see  us  off.  I 
had  a  short,  happy  walk  before  the  inexorable  coach  set 
off.  I  see  his  hands  —  delicate  "  fingers  that  felt  like 
brain  "  — -  resting  on  the  coach  door.  One  more  smile  — 
a  flash  of  light  always  —  and  we  were  no  longer  together. 
But  I  had  hope  —  had  we  not  fixed  to  meet  at  Rosstrevor  ? 
I  "  felt  more  than  ever  sure  of  his  affection,"  and  I  had 
love,  —  unutterable,  unuttered,  after  all  my  uttering  — 
love  which  was  life,  which  is  so  still ! 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

NEARER  AND  NEARER. 

(From  the  Manuscript.) 

MY  four  first  letters  have  the  Patterdale  postmark. 
He  remained  at  Quarry  Bank  three  weeks  after  my 
mother  and  I  left.  Having  heard  him  express  a  wish  to 
look  over  a  work  on  physiology,  I  got  my  dear  father  to 
procure  it  from  an  Edinburgh  library,  and  in  some  way  or 
other  contrived  to  leave  with  him  Dr.  Rowland  Williams's 
"  Christianity  and  Hindooism."  But  the  first  letter  says, 
"  I  do  not  feel  disposed  to  read.  It  is  not  easy  to  go  back 
to  books  if  they  are  to  be  made  the  substitute  for  a  very 
charming  society.  Have  I  not  been  talking  daily  with 
'  Divine  Philosophy '  herself  ?  Was  she  not  sitting  but 
the  other  evening  in  this  very  room  ?  Oh,  this  sweet  fem- 
inine personification  makes  the  mere  abstractions  of  the 
book  very  wearisome.  But  to-morrow  I  will  try  and  at- 
tack '  Christianity  and  Hindooism.'  One  must  come  back, 
come  down,  to  the  book.  There  is  no  help  for  it."  And 
the  second  letter  says :  "  Since  you  left  me  more  than  a 
week  has  passed,  and  I  can  recall  nothing  except  a  great 
deal  of  rain  and  long  idle  reveries  in  which  a  hat  with 
fern  leaves  in  it  is  perpetually  coming  and  going.  Think 
what  it  must  be  to  be  suddenly  let  down  from  two  walks 
per  diem  to  just  nothing  at  all.  I  cannot  take  to  these 
books.  I  shall  never  settle  down  to  read  in  this  place 
where  I  have  enjoyed  so  delightful  a  society.  How  com- 
pletely I  gave  myself  up  to  its  enjoyment !  That  I  should 
pay  some  penalty  for  this  great  pleasure  is  nothing,  but  I 


234  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

do  hope  you  will  not  reproach  me  for  acting,  as  the  astron- 
omers say,  as  a  '  disturbing  force,'  —  a  disturbing  force 
on  the  fair  and  benign  planet.  That  would  grieve  me  to 
think." 

This  is  my  answer  to  that  portion  of  the  letter.  "  1 
reproach  you !  I  ever,  ever  reproach  you !  Wild,  un- 
natural, impossible  words,  that  brought  those  tears  to  my 
eyes,  that  choking  pain  to  my  heart,  that  I  sometimes 
waked  with  in  my  little  room  at  Grisedale  Bridge,  fear- 
ing that  you  did  not  care  for  me.  But  the  pang  is  over. 
Kindest  nature,  that  would  not  hurt  the  meanest  thing 
that  lives !  "  And  I  go  on  so,  writing  cheerfully,  for  his 
letter  had  grown  sad  at  its  close.  But  in  the  course  of  my 
letter  (it  soothes  me  to  re-write  the  words  he  read)  I  say  : 
"  O  my  friend  of  friends,  my  friend  in  some  special  sense, 
how  beloved  you  cannot  know,  —  none  can  but  He  who 
reads  the  hearts  he  frames,  —  the  poor  planet  yields  to  the 
disturbing  force  without  a  struggle  or  without  a  regret. 
And  always,  my  sun,  must  that  side  be  bright  and  smil- 
ing which  she  turns  to  you.  This  be  sure  of,  —  I  bless 
the  day  I  saw  you  first,  —  I  bless  every  day  I  ever  spent 
with  you.  I  am  a  thousand  times  happier  even  so  —  hap- 
pier, nobler,  better,  than  before  I  knew  you.  And  in- 
deed, 

'  What  had  I  done,  or  what  am  I,  that  God 
Should  make  me  happier  than  his  angels  are  ! '  "  l 

The  proof  of  the  second  edition  of  "  Thorndale  "  now 
began  to  arrive.  He  writes :  "  How  I  wished  that  I  could 
have  carried  it  off  to  Grisedale  Bridge.  It  would  have 
been  a  pleasant  incident  to  have  happened  while  you  were 
here.  I  should  have  rushed  off  with  it  across  the  field,  and 
swept  round  the  little  churchyard  with  that  alacrity  of 
step  which  often  astonished  the  venerable  ex-pastor  watch- 
ing me  from  his  house.  He  seemed  to  watch  my  move- 
1  Sir  William  Crichton. 


NEARER  AND  NEARER.  235 

ments  with  some  interest.  He  sees  me  now  pass  round 
that  corner  with  sobriety  enough." 

After  three  weeks  of  complete  solitude  he  returned  to 
Keswick.  I  must  make  several  extracts  from  this  "  long, 
long  letter,"  written  in  the  minutest,  delicatest  hand.  "  If 
I  could  send  you  a  photograph  of  all  my  thoughts,  I  do 
not  think  you  would  be  displeased  with  the  picture  —  not 
personally.  You  would  not  approve,  for  you  would  see 
what  large  black  spots  had  been  wrought  by  certain  mis- 
erable reflections  on  my  own  social  status  —  on  the 
wretched  isolation  which  circumstances  seem  to  have 
brought  about  for  me  —  and  on  a  future  which  will  prob- 
ably darken  as  I  proceed.  But  you  would  see  your  own 
image  very  distinct,  and  looking  quite  as  beautiful  as  it 
did  to  the  mother's  eye  that  other  evening  —  you  would 
see  it  very  prettily  enshrined  amongst  the  trees  of  Ulls- 
water,  where  it  was  worshipped  something  more  than  the 
trees,  and  you  know  that  beautiful  trees  make  me  almost 
an  idolater. 

"  But  I  will  begin  my  letter  afresh,  and  start  from 
Monday  morning  and  proceed  chronologically.  '  Half-way 
up  Helvellyn ! '  These  I  think  were  the  last  words  in  my 
letter  from  Patterdale.  But  the  half  way  became  the 
whole  way.  For  I  thought  to  myself,  and  probably  said  1 
to  myself, '  There  never  could  be  a  finer  day  for  the  ascent 
—  clear  as  autumn,  warm  as  summer  —  and  those  noble 
clouds,  whose  light  in  the  sky  and  whose  shadow  on  the 
hills  are  almost  equally  beautiful.  Why  not  see  if  a  guide 
and  a  pony  are  to  be  had  ? '  Accordingly  I  bent  my  steps 
to  the  hotel,  and  procured  guide  and  pony,  and  ascended 
to  the  glorious  summit  of  Helvellyn.  My  guide  was  the 
very  perfection  of  a  guide,  for  when  we  had  reached  the 
top  he  drew  a  pipe  from  his  pocket  and  sat  himself  down 

1  This  is  an  allusion  to  a  little  established  jest  of  ours.  When  I 
had  first  known  him  I  had  noticed  that  long  solitude  had  induced  this 
habit. 


236  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

contentedly  to  smoke,  leaving  me  to  my  own  devices. 
Nothing  interfered  with  my  pleasure  except  a  remorseful 
feeling  that  I  had  not  persuaded  you  to  make  this  expedi- 
tion. The  view  was  really  very,  very  grand,  but  at  the 
same  time  so  exquisitely  beautiful  from  the  delicate  tints 
and  indescribable  purples  thrown  over  the  whole  scene, 
that  one  knows  not  what  word  to  apply  to  it.  But  you 
don't  want  a  description,  nor  can  any  mortal  man  give  one 
of  such  a  view  as  this. 

"  Tuesday  was  if  possible  even  a  finer  day  than  Mon- 
day. I  spent  it  paying  a  farewell  visit  to  all  the  charm- 
ing spots  between  Grisedale  Bridge  and  Glen  Coyn,  where 
we  had  sat  and  read  and  recited.  I  wished  a  good-by  to 
every  birch-tree  that  was  looking  into  the  sky  or  bending 
over  the  lake.  But  the  night  of  Tuesday  was  even  still 
more  glorious  than  the  day.  And  you  too  were  enjoying 
that  moonlight  ?  Was  it  not  superb  ?  At  about  eleven 
o'clock  I  walked  out  of  my  window,  and  strolled  in  the 
direction  of  that  little  knoll  by  the  stream,  which  I  sus- 
pect has  found  a  place  in  your  pocket-book.  You  re- 
member that  the  stream  takes  a  bend  here,  and  is  as  calm 
as  a  little  lake  would  be.  You  can  summon  up  all  the 
scene  I  was  looking  at  —  Hartsop  Dod  in  that  ethereal 
blue  which  a  very  bright  moon  throws  upon  the  moun- 
tains —  over  the  Dod  a  magnificent  array  of  clouds  bril- 
liant with  moonlight,  and  above  them  in  a  perfectly  clear 
sky  the  moon  herself  —  while  part  of  this  scene,  the  not- 
forgotten  trees  near  at  hand,  was  reflected  in  the  most 
charming  manner  imaginable  by  the  little  lake-stream  at 
my  feet. 

"  Wednesday  came,  and  what  a  change !  What  dire 
rain !  Yet  I  persisted,  under  the  umbrella,  in  paying  a 
last  visit  to  the  brook.  .  .  .  Just  at  four  o'clock  the  rain 
ceased,  and  I  was  not  condemned  to  the  interior  —  I 
mounted  the  box.  The  dark  clouds,  now  rolling  up  from 
the  hills,  brought  out  their  color,  and  the  last  view  I  had 


NEARER  AND  NEARER.  237 

of  Ullswater  from  Gowborough  Park  was  worthy  of  the 
dear  place  and  the  charming  reminiscences  it  will  ever 
bring  to  me.1 

"  Wednesday  evening  therefore  I  reached  Keswick, 
and  the  dark  fireless  house  looked  desolate  enough.  .  .  . 
Thank  you  for  this  pencil  sketch.  What  an  enviable  resi- 
dence must  this  be  of  your  brother's  !  It  is  quite  a  man- 
sion, a  palazzo  !  I  do  not  envy  people  who  have  mansions, 
but  I  do  envy,  with  almost  a  wicked  envy,  every  one  who 
has  a  home  in  the  country."  Then,  after  alluding  to  a 
"  big  desk  "  that  had  taken  his  fancy  at  Quarry  Bank,  he 
says  :  "  I  am  perforce  writing  on  my  old  little  one.  But 
I  beg  to  say  that  I  do  not  keep  your  letters  in  this  little 
open  desk.  I  must  tell  you  that  I  found  in  my  portman- 
teau, which  is  never  4  put  to  rights,'  but  has  all  sorts  of 
rubbish  squeezed  into  corners,  a  pocket-book  long  ago  pur- 
chased in  Belgium,  and  which  has  neither  been  used  nor 
thrown  away.  Into  this  I  deposit  your  letters.  And 
what  do  you  think  was  the  learned  book  that  occupied  me 
yesterday  evening?  It  was  precisely  this  pocket-book. 
I  took  out  the  letters,  and  read  every  one  of  them  through, 
every  word.  May  not  this  go  for  an  answer  to  something 
said  in  your  last  ?  I  do  not  know  how  to  express  the 
tenderness  that  comes  over  me  as  I  read  them.  Fit  words 
won't  come  —  not  to  the  pen  —  they  might  come  in  speech 
more  readily  than  wisely.  Do  you  know  when  I  look  at 
that  sketch  you  have  sent  me  of  your  brother's  house,  I 
feel  so  acutely  what  a  sort  of  vagabond  I  am.  And  you 
sit  up  there  in  the  marked  window  !  Somewhat  different 
from  the  little  room  at  Grisedale  Bridge." 

How  vividly  I  remember  the  intense  feeling  this  letter 
stirred !  His  was  not  only  the  nature  to  command  my 

1  He  never  saw  it  again.  The  first  year  after  our  marriage  he 
said  we  would  return  to  Patterdale  after  we  had  been  married  ten 
years.  The  ten  years  came  round,  but  he  was  occupied  at  Newton 
Place  and  reluctant  to  move. 


238  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

reverence,  but  his  the  circumstances  to  call  out,  nay,  to 
create,  a  tenderness  till  then  unguessed  at.  Something 
there  was  in  my  nature  which  might  have  led  to  caprice, 
to  momentary  antagonisms,  —  which  had  so  led  in  other 
relations.  A  rich,  a  prosperous  man  could  never  have 
had  my  worship  —  oh,  it  was  given  without  stint  or  cal- 
culation to  this  lonely  thinker  !  I  will  copy  a  few  words 
from  the  letter  I  wrote,  because  he  liked  it.  After  a 
burst  of  ecstasy  at  the  "  reading  over  "  of  my  "  four  let- 
ters," I  say :  "  There  they  all  are  down-stairs  —  I  am  so 
sorry  for  them  all  —  they  don't  know  you!  My  dear 
mother  does,  and  she  thinks  of  you  very  much  as  I  do  — 
are  you  at  all  aware  of  that  ?  My  sweet,  loving  little 
Mary  comes  and  kisses  me  constantly,  and  looks  peering 
into  my  eyes  as  though  she  saw  some  new  image  there. 
Whose  is  it,  say  —  whose  is  it  ?  But  the  other  benighted 
mortals  have  never  seen  you.  I  from  my  upper  chamber 
shrug  my  shoulders  compassionately,  and  '  I  write  '  —  yes, 
just  what  I  choose  —  I  am  not  to  be  daunted.  .  .  .  How 
I  delight  in  knowing  where  you  walk  and  what  you  do. 
I  could  not  follow  you  up  Helvellyn.  My  twenty-year-ago 
memory  of  it  is  very  dim.  But  I  can  follow  you  up  Glen 
Coyn,  and  to  that  consecrated  knoll.  As  we  stood  to- 
gether there  the  sky  grew  bluer,  the  air  softer,  the  very 
sun  shone  brighter  through  the  greener  leaves.  I  must 
go  down  to  prayers.  All  my  prayer  is :  '  Father,  bless 
him  —  teach  him  —  guide  him  —  make  my  love  a  bless- 
ing.' '  (This  prayer  I  dare  to  believe  was  fulfilled.) 

After  his  answering  letter,  the  next  two  are  very  sad  — 
at  Keswick  he  had  felt  "  every  one  standing  aloof."  The 
clergyman  had  met  him  in  the  library,  and  had  com- 
mented in  pastor-like  strain,  but  "  very  courteously,"  on 
the  "  shortcomings  "  of  "  Thorndale."  How  gently  he 
treated  of  this ,  —  just  in  these  words  !  "  Is  it  not  rather 
weak  for  such  a  man  not  to  see  that  I  do  not  belong  to  his 
camp  ?  that  I  am  camped  out  there,  not  hostilely  but 


NEARER   AND  NEARER.  239 

separately,  digging  out  our  entrenchments  —  I  and  oth- 
ers —  as  well  as  we  can,  on  the  common  earth,  under 
the  common  sky."  Then  there  were  discomforts  —  noisy 
fellow-lodgers.  "  It  is  hard,"  he  says,  "  to  be  alone,  and 
not  to  have  quiet !  *  Do  I  ever  wish  you  were  here  ?  ' 
Does  any  evening  pass  without  the  wish  ?  I  do  not  think 
your  experience  can  give  you  any  just  idea  of  what  these 
long  solitary  evenings  sometimes  are  to  me." 

Who  can  wonder  that  the  sadness,  the  solitude,  that 
breathe  from  these  letters  made  me  plead  the  more  earnestly 
for  our  meeting  again  ?  [In  a  previous  letter,  she  had  hinted 
at  "  a  hope  —  the  most  reasonable,  sober-minded,  common- 
sensible  hope  in  the  world  —  that  he  should  spend  some 
winter  weeks  in  Edinburgh."]  I  had  seen  him  for  six  weeks 
radiantly  joyous ;  he  had  told  me  he  "  had  never  spent  so 
happy  a  summer,"  "  never  met  a  nature  that  he  liked  so 
well  as  mine."  The  next  letter,  of  the  tenth  of  October, 
was  still  sadder  than  its  predecessor.  Here  are  the  words 
that  wrung  my  heart :  "  I  would  write  a  cheerful  and  in- 
spiring letter  if  I  could,  but  the  long,  lonely,  gloomy  days 
pass  one  after  the  other,  and  if  I  can  contrive  to  keep  my 
mind  so  far  occupied  as  not  to  sink  into  any  quite  morbid 
condition,  it  is  all  I  can  manage.  Day  after  day,  month  after 
month,  year  after  year,  has  passed  of  this  gloomy  uncom- 
panioned  life.  Can  you  wonder  that  there  is  little  energy 
left  in  the  man  ?  little  capability  of  hope  or  of  enterprise  ? 
that  he  sits  down  in  despondency  and  says, '  What  has  been 
must  be,  and  it  will  be  all  over  soon  ! '  I  am  glad  to 
have  my  answer  to  this  before  me  now.  I  tried  to  cheer, 
I  did  cheer,  for  the  next  letter  was  brighter  far,  though  it 
says :  "  I  think  all  day  at  intervals  of  your  letters,  and 
lie  awake  half  the  night  thinking  of  them.  I  have  had 
many  indecisions,  battles  with  myself,  what  to  do  or  what 
I  ought  to  do  —  but  few  indecisions  have  given  me  more 
anxiety  and  concern  than  this  about  the  journey  to  Edin- 
burgh. .  .  .  Such  terms  as  pleasurable  visit  and  the  like, 


240  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

although  I  might  use  them,  are  not  applicable.     Oh,  you 
were  quite  right  when  you  say  we  were  en  rapport,  and 
we  are  so  still."   Then  follow  life-giving  words  !   How  well 
I  remember  walking  that,  day  up  a  very  steep  hill  in  the 
strength  they  lent.     For  I  wanted  nothing  but  his  love, 
and  sometimes  his  presence  for  the  sake  of  both.     I  must 
have  written  back  in  cheerful  strain,  and  given  an  account 
of  visits,  people    (but  of  that  long  letter  he  only   kept 
the  postscript !     He  too  cared  most  to  be  told  what  he 
knew*).     Yet  in  this  letter  too  there  are  sad  hints.     "  Oh, 
you  little  know  what  a  person  like  me,  with  my  simple 
habits,  means  when  he  talks  of  that  4  Shadow  feared  of 
men ! ' :      Then  comes,  in  letter  after  letter,  in  one  form 
or  another,  the  haunting  question,  "  What  right  have  I?  " 
At  one  time  he  even  tells  me  he  has  been  tempted  to  send 
"  arithmetical  figures."     But  I  could  not  surrender  my 
hope.     All  the  letters  contained  touches  of  sadness  : ."  I 
see  no  one  —  speak  to  no  one.     I  often  think  one  word  or 
two  of  exhilarating  conversation  would  give  me  some  en- 
ergy and  spirit.     I  am  sallow  as  a  ghost."     And  I  knew 
that  I  could  at  least  ward  off  gloom  from  the  present,  and 
I  could  have  bartered  for  that  all  my  future  !     I  do  not 
speak  of  my  own  yearning  for  his  voice,  his  smile.     Per- 
sonal feeling  might  have  been  sometimes  piqued  by  his 
irresolution,  which  I  could  not  then  so  fully  understand. 
Now  I  see  of  course  what  it  was  that  made  the  debate. 
He  thought  me  many  years  younger  than  I  was,  thought 
too  that  the  "  heart  and  faith  union  "  was  imperatively 
necessary  to  my  happiness.     I  only  love  him  the  more  for 
every  scruple  that  tortured  me  then !     On  the  second  of 
December,  one  of  my  life's  intensest  joys  was  bestowed. 
I  had  heard  that  he  was  coming.      I  had  found  rooms  for 
him.     But  late  that  night,  walking  back  with  Mary  from 
Mrs.  Jones's,  I  saw  the  light  in  his  window  ! 


NEARER  AND  NEARER.  241 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

In  the  winter  he  came  to  Edinburgh  for  some  weeks  — 
came  after  much  irresolution,  and  with  many  scruples, 
such  as  will  easily  be  imagined  in  a  nature  so  fastidiously 
honorable,  so  purely  unselfish  as  his.  On  my  part  there 
were  no  scruples.  In  heart  and  soul,  through  life  to 
death,  I  knew  that  I  was  his.  Poverty  might  indeed  pre- 
clude much,  but  that  nothing  could  alter,  and  to  be  the 
chosen  and  the  dearest  friend  of  such  a  one  as  he  seemed 
to  me,  and,  what  is  more  remarkable,  seemed  to  my  most 
fond  and  partial  mother,  a  high  if  not  altogether  a  happy 
destiny.  I  may  here  quote  a  passage  from  a  review  by 
him  of  Gray's  Letters  (written  four  years  before  the  time 
I  am  speaking  of),  because  it  was  verified  in  the  life  of 
both  of  us :  "  How  grossly  do  we  err,  indeed,  when  we 
think  that  youth  is  the  especial  or  exclusive  season  of 
friendship,  or  even  of  love !  In  the  experience  of  many 
it  has  been  found  that  the  want  of  the  heart,  the  thirst 
for  affection,  has  been  felt  far  more  in  manhood  than  in 
early  years." 

The  six  weeks  spent  in  Edinburgh  were  for  him  social, 
cheerful  weeks.  For  the  first  time  I  saw  him  in  society. 
In  a  gathering  of  strangers  he  would  often  sit  silent ;  and 
I  noticed,  with  some  amusement,  how  any  complimentary 
allusion  to  his  book  would  embarrass  him,  and  make  him 
look  round  for  a  way  of  escape.  Perhaps  this  may  have 
led  to  his  being  called  a  shy  man.  I  never  thought  the 
epithet  descriptive.  He  chose  to  retire,  was  more  swift 
to  hear  than  to  speak,  preferred  learning  from  others  to 
setting  them  right,  and  was  very  sensitive  of  social  atmos- 
phere. But  when  that  atmosphere  was  congenial,  he  was 
more  completely  frank,  and  more  invariably  elicited  frank- 
ness from  others  than  sufferers  from  shyness  can.1  Dur- 

1  I  recollect  Dr.  Robert  Chambers,  at  whose  house  William  once 
dined,  observing  to  me,  after  some  htlmorous  lamentations  about  the 


242  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

ing  his  stay  in  Edinburgh  we  were  of  course  much  to- 
gether, and  my  dear  father  now  learned  in  a  measure  to 
know  him.  I  say  "  in  a  measure,"  for  he,  alas !  was 
blind,  and  could  not  see  the  animated  face,  the  smile 
which  was  as  it  were  the  key  to  the  whole  man ;  so  that  to 
those  who  never  saw  it  I  despair  of  conveying  the  secret 
of  his  personal  influence. 

(From  the  Manuscript.) 

What  bright  days  those  winter  ones  were  !  made  up  of 
meetings.  In  the  morning,  always  the  walk,  the  talk,  un- 
fettered and  careless  as  though  still  in  the  country  —  he 
a  singular  figure,  in  a  very  old-fashioned  military  cloak ; 
I  seeing  and  caring  for  none  but  him,  and  carrying  his 
frugal  luncheon,  biscuits  and  candied  apricots,  which  he 
would  eat  in  some  quiet  street  or  terrace.  Then  the 
evening !  Sometimes,  but  seldom,  he  dined  out,  at  Mr. 
Blackwood's.  Sometimes  we  spent  some  hours  together 
at  Mr.  Constable's  or  Mrs.  Stirling's,  but  if  so  we  returned 
to  our  own  cheery  home  to  talk  it  all  over,  and  have  a 
supplementary  supper.  Generally,  however,  he  came  for 
the  whole  evening  —  read  to  us,  Dickens,  Shakespeare, 
Philip  Van  Artevelde.  Then  the  happy  hours  of  perfect 
companionship  !  I  saw  new  phases  of  his  character,  too. 
I  saw  him  in  society,  so  shrinking  from  praise,  so  expand- 
ing to  cordiality,  so  sparkling  in  conversation  with  some, 
so  simple  and  real  with  all.  Every  one  took  to  him,  felt 
his  charm  and  his  rarity.  On  December  thirty-first  I 
note  in  my  pocket-book :  "  He  sat  here  till  one.  God 
bless  him !  This  year  ended  very  happily."  .  .  .  Those 
remembered  fire-lights  —  lighting  up  the  green  walls  and 
red  curtains  of  what  he  called  "  a  charming  room "  — 
lighting  up  his  slight  figure  and  thoughtful  brow,  from 

universality  of  the  name  of  Smith,  that  he  had  "  never  seen  a  man 
whom  he  could  so  soon  love."  Dr.  Chambers  could  not  have  sus- 
pected the  interest  I  felt  in  hearing  him  say  so. 


NEARER  AND  NEARER.  243 

which  in  those  hours  of  intense  feeling  every  furrow  was 
smoothed  away  —  I  at  his  feet  —  it  was  my  joy  to  sit 
there.  Oh,  only  Love !  I  cannot  bear,  except  in  flashes, 
to  recall  those  hours ! 

[They  parted  early  in  the  new  year,  —  "  under  the  stars 

—  both  very  sad,"  —  and  he  went  to    Brighton.]  .  .  . 
Writing  toward  the  end  of  February,  he  touches  upon 
"Mill's  last  book  on  Liberty  "  (sent  him  by  the  author, 
which  he  did  not  say)  :  "  You  would  really  like  to  look 
into  it,  if  only  for  the  tender  and  eulogistic  mention  that 
he  makes,  at  the  commencement,  of  his  late  wife.     He, 
the  philosopher  par  excellence,  attributes  all  that  is  best 
in  his  own  writings  to  her  influence.     The  book  itself  is 
not  dry  —  many  parts  are  eloquent.     You  will  not  agree 
with  it  entirely,  and  I  too  have  my  reservations,  but  there 
are  some  profound  truths  powerfully  stated.     More  es- 
pecially was  I  delighted  to  see  him  bring  forward  the 
value  of  the  energy  —  the  spontaneous,  God-given  energy 

—  of  the  individual  man.     In   one   point   of  view,  this 
seems  a  mere  truism,  yet  it  is  a  truism,  as  he  himself  says, 
which  one  hardly  ever  sees  recognized  in  its  full  mean- 
ing."    I  suppose  that  I  had  thought  general  subjects  had 
occupied  too  large  a  space  in  these  last  letters  —  that  my 
heart  cried  out  for  personal  matter  —  that,  remembering 
spoken  words,  I  had  quarrelled  with  the  reticence  of  the 
pen  —  for  he  begins  the  next :      "  You  very  dear  one, 
what  can  I  say  or  do  ?    I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to 
cover  this    paper  with    expressions  of   affection  —  very 
honest,  true,  humble,  genuine,  and  devotional !     And  yet 
the  next  moment,  I  must  hold  up  the  threadbare  cloak 
of  the  poor  philosopher,  and  shake  it  at  you.    I  must! 
Not    that  I  have  a  perverse  attachment  to  threadbare 
cloaks,  or  any  threadbare  mode  of  existence.      I   quite 
agree  with  the  writer  in  this  month's  '  Blackwood,'  that 
there  is  no  virtue  in  emulating  the  scarecrow  —  but  you 
might  as  well  object  to  the  scarecrow  himself  as  to  some 


244  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

of  us.  Such  sticks  were  never  designed,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  to  face  the  world  in  any  but  a  scarecrow 
fashion.  The  poor  philosopher,  and  his  brother  who 
stands  there  in  the  centre  of  the  field,  cannot  possibly 
help  themselves."  How  this  strain  must  have  called  out 
all  the  passion  of  my  reverence  and  love,  my  own  heart 
would  tell  me,  even  if  I  did  not  find  it  in  his  next  letter. 

...  In  another  letter,  he  humorously  lauds  the  little 
shilling  photograph  he  had  given  me,  while  he  deprecates 
my  insistence  on  his  sending  me  his  bust,  which  then  I 
had  only  heard  of,  not  seen,  but  which  was  acknowledged 
to  be  mine.  He  pleads :  "  Bear  me  witness  every  stone 
in  Princes  Street !  I  did  constantly  protest  against  any 
project  of  transporting  it  to  Edinburgh.  .  .  Besides  it  is 
a  cheat  now,  for  it  was  done  many  years  ago  when  I  was 
young  — '  ah,  woeful  when  ! '  The  photograph  is  so  much 
better,  and  I  do  think  that  was  such  a  lucky  specimen. 
It  seems  to  me  that  the  sun  must  have  smiled  on  me  that 
day,  and  purposely  flattered  me  —  giving  me  a  certain 
air  of  respectability,  which  I  am  conscious  that  the  orig- 
inal does  not  possess.  If had  seen  this  instead  of 

the  man  himself,  he  would  not  have  said,  'Just  such 
a  fellow  as  one  would  take  for  a  sceptic.'  But  he  would 
have  said,  '  Ha,  now !  That  is  a  respectable  country 
gentleman,  who  however  you  see  has  not  been  alto- 
gether idle  with  his  brain  —  respectable  and  intelligent.' 
Oh,  keep  to  that  photograph !  "  The  next  letter  is  a  little 
sad.  Of  "  Thorndale  "  he  says :  "  It 's  sinking  down 
into  the  Eternal  Silences.  Best  perhaps  that  it  should 
be  so.  What  one  has  to  do  is  to  read  on,  and  think 
on,  and  try  to  get  a  firmer  grasp  on  certain  matters." 
At  this  time  he  was  "  studying  St.  Paul  with  the  assist- 
ance of  Jowett,"  and  re-reading  Maurice's  "Theolog- 
ical Essays."  He  writes :  "  My  impression  is  that  no 
modern  divine  whom  I  have  ever  heard  or  read  gives  so 
faithful  an  interpretation  of  the  leading  ideas  of  St.  Paul. 


NEARER  AND  NEARER.  245 

Did  you  ever  read  this  volume  ?  Maurice  is  talked  of  gen- 
erally as  if  he  were  a  denier  —  he  is  viewed  only  as  an  op- 
ponent to  certain  orthodox  notions  —  but  he  is  in  fact  what 
people  for  want  of  a  better  word  call  a  mystic."  In  the 
course  of  a  few  days  he  sent  me  the  "  Theological  Essays," 
putting  the  L.  C.  C.  and  the  date  in  the  book.  He  says 
of  the  Essays :  "  They  at  all  events  can  do  only  good. 
They  raise  the  standard  of  piety  and  of  morals,  while  they 
liberate  from  some  of  the  harsher  dogmas*"  The  book 
stands  there  before  me  now.  Oh,  my  good  angel  from 
first  to  last,  so  gently  wise,  letting  in  light  so  softly  upon 
the  poor  eyes  that  dreaded  it,  —  you  would  have  forgiven 
me  for  loving  better  than  the  highest  teaching  these  simple 
words  in  the  same  letter  :  "  How  could  you  think  of  ask- 
ing such  a  question  as  whether  the  books  quite  drive  out 
all  thoughts  of  you  ?  Why,  I  can  read  nothing  as  I  ought 
to  read  it,  for  thinking  of  you.  No  book  lays  hold  of  my 
attention  half  firmly  enough.  Even  such  peace  as  poor 
despondent  men  attain  to,  and  seem  entitled  to,  has  not 
been  mine  of  late." 

For  me  he  had  excellent  advice.  During  this  spring, 
as  before  and  after,  I  was  trying  by  humble  pen-work  — 
translation,  notices,  or  epitomes  of  books  —  to  eke  out  my 
own  very  small  family  income,  and  I  feared  one  of  these 
resources  was  about  to  fail.  He  wrote :  "  Think  and  read, 
and  beautiful  things  will  grow  up  under  that  so  '  femi- 
nine brow ; '  under  that  pleasant  archway  fair  trains  of 
imagery  will  be  passing.  Possess  your  thoughts  in  peace 
—  let  your  mind  develop  itself  free  as  the  white  cloud 
that  has  half  the  sky  to  itself." 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

We  could  not  now  consent  to  long  separations ;  the 
summers  we  might  at  least  contrive  to  spend  together,  — 
and  therefore,  breaking  through  the  habit  of  years,  Wil- 
liam Smith  forsook  his  dear  Lake  country,  and  in  the 


246  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

May  of  1859  we  met  at  Dunkeld.  During  this  summer  a 
fervent  protest  of  his  against  the  explanation  given  by 
Dr.  Mansel  of  "  The  Limits  of  Religious  Thought "  ap- 
peared in  "  Blackwood's  Magazine,"  a  and  he  was  occupied 
in  writing  a  review  of  Sir  William  Hamilton's  "  Lectures 
on  Metaphysics."  Our  talks  now  more  frequently  took 
an  abstract  character.  He  would  lead  me  into  his  own 
favorite  sphere  of  philosophical  thought,  and,  untrained 
as  my  mind  was,  any  receptivity  it  had  lay  in  that  direc- 
tion. On  other  points,  too,  I  could  not  but  be  insensibly 
modified  by  his  companionship. 

1  "  The  true  reality,  we  repeat,  for  each  one  of  us  lies  in  those  di- 
vine attributes  manifested  in  the  very  nature  of  the  world  and  of 
humanity,  and  from  which  we  necessarily  infer  the  Divine  Being,  and 
not  in  the  scholastics'  notions  of  the  Absolute  and  the  Infinite." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

UNITED. 

(From  the  Manuscript.) 

ON  the  twelfth  of  May,  1859,  the  entry  in  the  pocket- 
book  is  in  his  handwriting.  "  Mr.  Smith  arrived  by  the 
11.12  train.  We  walked  by  the  river  —  were  out  three 
hours.  He  came  in  the  evening  at  six.  We  walked  be- 
yond Inver.  I  went  to  see  his  room  at  Mrs.  Christie's. 
Mr.  S.  returned  with  me."  One  flash  of  his  light-hearted- 
ness  that  morning  I  remember.  I  had  been  reading 
"Thorndale,"  and  said  something  about  it  to  which  he 
replied  by  a  delicious  anachronism :  "  Oh,  dear,  it 's  your 
book!  "  I  see  his  very  smile  in  saying  this,  as  we  turned 
into  the  broad  grass  walk  that  then  led  from  Birnam 
past  the  great  trees  —  sole  relics  of  the  ancient  woods  — 
along  the  deep  rapid  flow  of  the  Tay. 

And  now  it  is  difficult  to  know  how  much  to  tell  of  the 
next  four  months.  I  have  only  the  records  in  my  pocket- 
book,  and  the  fond  memories  too  sacred  for  utterance.  I 
was  busily  occupied  just  then  in  translating,  compiling, 
etc.,  and  he  was  ever  ready  to  help  in  his  own  incompa- 
rable way  —  so  simply  and  spontaneously  and  as  it  were 
unconsciously,  that  help  from  him  was  pure  help,  could 
never  become  obligation,  could  never  weigh  on  memory. 

The  entries  in  my  journal,  however,  are  seldom  unquali- 
fiedly cheerful.  They  are  full  of  extremes  —  morning 
walks  all  brightness  and  present  joy,  but  evenings  that 
closed  in  all  gloomy  and  gray,  and  told  upon  the  sensitive 
organism  of  my  "  sun  spirit, "  as  I  sometimes  called  him  ; 


248  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

evenings  when  the  future  seemed  all  isolation  and  failure ; 
—  or  else  mornings  when  the  talk  would  run  into  painful 
channels,  let  it  begin  ever  so  abstractedly,  but  evenings  of 
intense,  silent  joy,  that  left  their  deep  traces  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  both. 

.  .  .  We  did  not  much  vary  our  walks  at  Dunkeld,  any 
more  than  at  Patterdale.  The  summer  was  a  fine  one,  we 
sat  out  much,  and  almost  always  had  a  book  with  us, 
though  I  think  it  was  less  and  less  read.  There  was 
no  subject  on  which  he  did  not  talk  to  me,  however 
unfamiliar  to  my  ignorance.  And  all  his  depression,  his 
sad  anticipation,  his  discouragement,  he  shared  with  me 
more  and  more  unreservedly.  .  .  .  He  brought  me  Ten- 
nyson's "  Idylls  of  the  King ;  "  and  oh,  how  beautiful  they 
were  when  read  by  him  those  who  heard  them  often  in  af- 
ter years  will  never  forget.  So  the  summer  glided  by.  It 
had  brought  us  nearer,  but  no  ray  of  further  hope  ap- 
peared. Indeed,  when  I  think  of  our  circumstances  as  they 
were  then,  I  cannot  well  imagine  anything  more  discour- 
aging. And  yet,  a  new  phrase  became  current  toward 
the  end  of  our  mutual  life,  "  There  is  no  saying  what  may 
happen,"  and  to  both  it  meant  not  only  possible  future 
meetings,  but  what  was  confessedly,  demonstrably,  the 
impossible !  Good-by,  then,  my  sweet  memories  of  Dun- 
keld —  of  our  long  rests,  half  buried  in  heather  and  ferns, 
watching  the  waving  of  the  well-loved  birches  on  the  com- 
mon, watching  the  great  clouds  above  the  Grampians, 
watching  once  the  delicious  gambols  of  a  large  family  of 
white  goats,  who  had  no  suspicion  of  our  presence  —  1 
watching  always,  dearer  and  more  important  to  me  than 
all  earth  and  sky,  the  least  change  that  passed  over  his 
face,  least  shadow  overcasting  the  radiant  smile,  least  hint 
of  sadness  in  the  dark,  far-gazing  eyes.  On  the  sixteenth 
of  September  we  had  our  last  walk  —  he  went  with  us  to 
the  station,  but  I  would  not  let  him  stay  till  the  train 
moved.  I  saw  him  off  —  and  the  joy  that  had  been, 


UNITED.  249 

words  he  had  said,  and  the  intimate  sense  that  nothing 
could  sever  our  hearts  and  minds,  supported  me ;  so  that 
only  on  the  following  day  the  already  familiar  anguish 
fastened  on  me  —  the  want  of  everything.  .  .  . 

[Soon  afterward,  he  had  a  slight  illness  at  Keswick. 
The  letters  soon  told  of  health  improving,  but  the  spirits 
flagged.]  "  Yes,  yes  —  you  know  that  you  hold  a  place  in 
my  mind  and  affections  that  no  one  else  holds,  and  that 
no  one  will  ever  hold  again.  But  you  know  also  what 
manner  of  man  it  is  who  says  this,  and  from  what  sort  of 
hopeless  environment  he  says  it.  This  illness  would  be 
enough  to  humble  me  if  I  wanted  such  a  lesson.  Weak, 
weak  —  body  and  mind,  body  and  mind.  '  Too  late,  too 
late !  Ye  cannot  enter  now ! '  I  will  not  let  hope  get 
into  my  mind,  but  will  just  fold  my  old  cloak  round  me, 
and  walk  as  quietly  and  cheerfully  as  I  can  down  this 
long  lane  that  has  no  turning"  And  then  he  plunges 
into  other  subjects  —  my  translations,  tales,  and  the  rest, 
which  he  revised  for  me ;  financial  matters  concerning  me ; 
my  health,  etc.  I  was  not  well  at  this  time ;  had  sudden 
attacks,  of  no  significance  as  the  sequel  proved,  but  I  am 
sure  they  helped  me.  To  die  seemed  sweeter  than  to  live 
on  without  him,  and  if  I  died  I  could  be  of  some  little  use. 
Accordingly  I  made  my  will,  and  supported  my  spirits 
somewhat  thereby! 

[A  passing  visit  was  made  by  Lucy  and  her  mother  at 
Keswick,  which  yielded  a  happy  fortnight.]  But  though 
I  tell  in  my  pocket-book  of  "  happiest  hours  —  nature 
and  him,"  there  were  some  sad  hours  in  which  I  strove 
against  his  firm  resolve  against  spending  the  winter  in 
Edinburgh.  That  he  would  not  do  —  not,  he  said,  from 
want  of  affection ;  he  loved  me  "  quite  enough,  too  much  ;  " 
but  for  reasons  that  he  did  not  then  give.  I  think  the 
horror  of  the  observation  he  would  excite,  the  sense  of  ut- 
ter hopelessness,  making  all  comment  upon  the  situation 
painful,  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  it.  Yet  it  was  hard 


250  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

for  the  hope  to  quite  die  in  my  heart.  A  singular  little 
incident  comes  in  here.  I  had  changed  a  ten-pound  note 
on  the  morning  of  our  departure,  and  after  paying  our 
little  weekly  bill  put  the  purse  into  my  pocket.  It  was  a 
very  wet  day.  At  the  coach  office,  settling  myself  in  the 
wretched  vehicle  and  looking  for  my  purse  in  order  to  pay 
the  fare,  I  discovered  that  the  pocket  was  empty.  Kind 
Miss  Buchan,  who  was  "  seeing  us  off,"  at  once  rushed 
back  to  our  lodging  to  see  whether  peradventure  it  had 
been  left  there,  and,  passing  Mr.  Smith  in  a  sheltering 
doorway,  "  ready  to  take  off  his  wide-awake  in  the  most 
graceful  manner  he  could  "  when  the  coach  should  pass, 
she  told  him  of  the  disaster.  Instantly  he  was  with  us, 
and  the  contents  of  his  purse  poured  into  my  mother's  lap 
—  no  counting,  scarce  any  knowing  what  he  did.  A  little 
thing,  and  yet  done  in  a  way  —  his  way —  which  my  dear 
mother,  herself  the  most  generous  of  women,  pronounced 
special  and  never  to  be  forgotten.  How  earnest  the  dark 
eyes  were  !  "  Was  there  enough  ?  "  "  Oh,  too  much,  too 
much !  "  And  the  coach  rolled  away.  The  loss  was  in- 
explicable, for  we  had  met  no  one  in  the  deluged  streets. 
The  crier  was  sent  out  at  once  to  "  cry  the  purse,"  and  on 
the  Monday  following  he  wrote  a  few  hurried  lines  to  say 
he  had  heard  something  of  a  purse  found  —  he  was  "  so 
distressed  to  think  of  the  pretty  story "  —  I  had  earned 
that  ten  pounds  —  "  going  that  way."  The  end  of  it  was 
that  he,  the  most  truthful  human  being  I  ever  knew,  de- 
liberately concocted  a  tale  which  entirely  took  me  in; 
which  never  wakened  in  my  mother  or  myself  an  instant's 
surprise ;  which  was  cleverly  circumstantial,  freeing  from 
suspicion  the  one  around  whom  my  suspicion  had  flitted ; 
involving  no  one  but  some  unknown  girl  in  the  fault  of 
having  found  and  kept  the  money  and  done  away  with  the 
purse  as  a  precautionary  measure.  It  was  a  great  relief 
to  me  at  the  time  to  recover  that  little  sum,  and  only  when 
we  were  married,  when  I  could  not  repay  him,  did  the 


UNITED.  251 

real  truth  transpire !  Oh,  I  like  to  think  how  brightly 
he  must  have  smiled  to  himself  over  the  success  of  his 
ruse ! 

After  these  matters  of  finance,  repayment,  transmission 
of  the  supposed  balance,  had  been  got  through,  he  sits 
down  a  week  after  our  departure  to  write  "  a  very  long 
letter,"  after  a  "dreary,  solitary  day  and  no  particular 
task  in  hand."  Most  of  this  letter  consists  of  sympathiz- 
ing comment  upon  my  family  perplexities,  which  rather 
overwhelmed  me  just  then.  (I  thankfully  acknowledge 
they  were  not  too  great.  How  they  enhanced  —  but  that 
did  not  need  enhancing  —  how  they  taught  me  to  measure, 
to  realize,  the  bliss  of  the  after  years !)  He  says :  "  Ah 
me !  what  a  multitude  of  things  the  dear  head  has  to  think 
of !  I  don't  know  whether  to  congratulate  you  or  not  on 
being  so  indispensable.  Who  could  take  your  place  ? 
Yet  it  is  hard  that  the  dear  bird,  like  a  bird  carved  in 
stone,  should  be  fixed  and  prisoned  because  it  is  the  key- 
stone of  the  arch.  To  be  of  no  use  to  any  one  —  or  of 
too  much  use  — 4 1  know  not  which  is  better,  no,  not  I,'  or 
rather  which  is  worse." 

.  .  .  [He  withstood  the  proposed  Edinburgh  visit.] 
He  wrote :  "  All  I  know  is  that  I  for  my  own  part  feel 
my  heart  going  out  toward  a  certain  impossibility,  and 
that  cannot  be  wise  —  that  is  a  sort  of  insanity.  I  don't 
want  to  be  insane  —  I  want  to  keep  my  head  —  must  have 
a  little  use  and  possession  of  this  bit  of  brain  —  it  is  all 
I  have  for  occupation  or  for  pleasure." 

Again  he  says :  "  Be  generous,  and  do  not  use  all  your 
power."  But  I  suffered,  and  I  fear  I  was  not  generous 
in  hiding  it.  He  writes :  "  I  have  such  a  heart  of  lead ! 
I  cannot  attempt  to  describe  the  pain  which  your  pain 
gives  me  —  and  I  have  my  own  too.  Indeed  it  will  be 
with  a  very  sad  heart  that  I  shall  bend  next  week  toward 
Brighton.  I  feel  something  of  the  same  strange  pang 
that  I  had  in  parting  with  you  at  Edinburgh.  I  am  not 


252  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

wood  and  stone  —  and  I  know  that  if  a  little  sunshine  of 
a  vulgar  prosperity  that  you  often  despise  had  fallen  upon 
me  the  heart  also  would  have  been  free  to  open."  It  was 
decided,  then !  He  says :  "  I  seem  to  myself  to  have  de- 
cided rightly,  but  how  wretched  I  have  been  while  adher- 
ing to  this  decision  it  would  be  vain  and  useless  and 
worse  than  useless  to  say."  He  owns  that  "  these  long 
evenings  are  very  trying,  but  I  have  been  accustomed 
through  many  years  to  live  with  almost  no  pleasure  ex- 
cept what  a  book  and  a  walk  can  supply."  He  says  too  : 
"  You  have  wrought  a  revolution  in  my  tastes.  I  used  to 
say  '  Society  between  the  four  walls  of  a  house,  but  my 
walks  alone,'  and  now  I  have  learnt  to  like  my  walk  with 
another  —  with  one  other." 

[Two  months  later,  a  visit  of  hers  with  her  dear  friend 
Mrs.  Ruck  in  London  allowed  some  happy  days  together, 
and  the-  opportunity  of  meeting  in  Brighton  his  beloved 
nieces  and  their  mother.]  Mrs.  Ruck  and  he  were  in- 
stantly at  home  with  each  other  —  related  natures.  He 
felt  the  full  charm  of  her  "  frank  and  cordial  reception," 
"  did  not  feel  himself  a  perfect  stranger  in  her  house  for 
one  moment."  At  this  time  he  went  out  pretty  frequently 
in  an  evening,  and  his  letters  contain  many  bright  de- 
scriptive touches  —  sketches  in  half  a  dozen  words.  "  I 

have  been  spending  an  hour  at .     I  found  the  rooms 

full,  and  chiefly  with  strangers.  A  certain  social  ambi- 
tion naturally  accompanies  the  larger  drawing-room.  I 
was  not  sorry  to  come  away.  No,  indeed,  I  never  fled 
from  society.  I  like  society  dearly,  but  it  is  after  my  own 
fashion.  Hot  and  crowded  rooms  I  most  certainly  should 
avoid,  whatever  entree  I  might  have  to  them.  As  you 
know,  I  live  only  on  the  crumbs  of  society,  just  pick  up 
a  grain  or  two  of  such  pleasure,  like  some  strange  fowl 
who  is  not  recognized  as  altogether  belonging  to  the  poul- 
try-yard." ...  In  another  letter  he  writes :  "  You  see 
I  do  not  fable  when  I  tell  you  that  '  Thorndale  '  has  had  its 


UNITED.  253 

little  day.  .  .  .  Indeed  I  am  not  morbid;  I  would  be 
hopeful  if  I  could.  I  sometimes  try  very  hard  to  be  hope- 
ful, for  such  happy  dreams  would  follow.  You  have  told 
me  I  might  dream  at  least." 

The  third  of  May,  1860,  found  him  and  me  and  my 
dear  mother  comfortably  installed  as  joint  tenants,  for 
five  months,  of  Mount  Hazel,  a  farmhouse  in  Carnar- 
vonshire, not  far  from  the  coast.  On  the  most  exquisite 
May-day  imaginable,  my  beloved  mother  and  I,  having 
slept  at  Carlisle  the  night  before,  left  it  at  ten,  and  reached 
Mount  Hazel  at  eleven  at  night.  This  long  day  of  travel- 
ling remains  in  my  mind  as  one  of  the  happiest  I  have 
known  —  a  very  rapture  of  anticipation.  On  our  arrival, 
there  was  a  certain  reaction  —  the  house  looked  dreary  — 
would  he  like  it  ?  The  next  day  was  spent  in  arranging 
the  rooms.  The  next,  the  third  of  May,  there  was  a  let- 
ter to  him,  a  line  from  him  —  he  would  arrive  in  the  even- 
ing. I  went  out  in  the  afternon  to  gather  primroses.  I 
met  him  unexpectedly.  I  saw  the  dear  face  flush  crimson. 
For  me,  I  read  in  my  pocket-book :  "  A  life's  joy  in  a 
moment." 

.  .  .  Dunkeld  had  been  a  great  advance  upon  Patter- 
dale,  because  the  evenings  were  always  spent  together. 
But  Mount  Hazel  improved  upon  Dunkeld  —  we  were  in 
the  same  house,  and  he  dined  with  us !  That  made  the 
little  meal  a  significant  festival.  The  day's  routine  was 
this  :  He  breakfasted  alone  ;  he  wrote  or  read  till  eleven 
or  twelve,  then  came  for  me  and  the  morning  walk.  We 
dined  at  three  (his  hour)  ;  then  he  returned  to  his  own 
room  and  had  his  early  tea ;  then  the  second  walk,  but 
not  always;  I  sometimes  went  out  with  my  precious 
mother.  Then  supper,  chess,  and,  when  my  mother 
feigned  to  be  sleepy  and  went  early  to  bed,  our  own 
hour ! 

Then  —  but  I  only  know  it  years  later  —  I  was  allowed 
to  win  at  chess  always  one  game.  I  used  to  wonder  at  my 


254  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

own  skill,  he  fought  so  skilfully  up  to  defeat !  He  saw 
that  I  was  childish  enough  to  like  winning  a  well-con- 
tested game,  and  he  liked  giving  it  me.  .  .  .  One  of  our 
pleasures  consisted  in  standing  long  by  walls  with  broad 
grassy  top,  confining  our  attention  to  a  space  about  a  foot 
square,  and  showing  each  other  all  each  discovered.  No 
recollection  of  him  is  more  vivid  than  this.  Short-sighted 
as  he  was,  the  little  details  generally  escaped  him,  but 
these  walls  were  conveniently  high.  Oh,  I  see  the  grace- 
ful, slight  figure ;  the  delicate  hand  gently,  tenderly,  ex- 
ploring the  grass  and  leaves ;  the  brown  eyes  lit  with 
pleasure  at  the  discovery  of  some  small  fly  with  rainbow 
tints  in  its  tiny  wings,  some  burnished  beetle,  some  very 
long-legged  spider  with  seven-league  boots  striding  over 
our  area  and  away!  What  wonders  we  discovered  in 
familiar  things !  He  loved  and  reverenced  all  life.  These 
were  our  compensations  on  dull  days,  under  the  umbrella, 
but  a  bright  morning  always  tempted  us  down  to  the 
shore. 

On  the  thirteenth,  he  met  me  coming  back  from  morn- 
ing service,  and  we  sat  long  on  a  stone,  and  he  told  me 
all  I  had  so  long  wished  to  know  of  the  early  romance  a 
poet's  life  must  have  held.  I  cannot  remember  what  led 
to  his  doing  so,  except  that  he  liked  me  "  to  look  him 
through  and  through."  How  I  cried,  from  most  complex 
feelings  !  He  told  it  all  very  simply,  as  he  had  done  in  a 
paper  of  his  called  "  Wild  Oats,"  published  in  "  Black- 
wood  "  in  1840.  There  was  therefore  an  interval  of  more 
than  twenty  years  between  that  "  miserable  fortnight " 
and  the  bright  day  when  we  sat  together  —  but  how  my 
tears  flowed ! 

An  incident  which  caused  me  some  unexpressed  regret 
was  his  refusing  an  offer  of  Mr.  Blackwood's,  which 
would  have  been  advantageous  in  one  sense.  Mr.  Black- 
wood  wished  him  to  undertake  the  translation  of  IVJonta- 
lembert's  "  Monks  of  the  West."  There  were  to  be  six 


UNITED.  255 

volumes,  and  sixty  pounds  was  offered  for  each  volume. 
But  ho  could  not  entertain  the  idea.  He  needed  the  time 
for  his  own  thinking  even  more  than  his  own  writing,  and 
he  felt  that  there  would  have  been  a  "  certain  insincerity 
involved  "  —  his  standpoint  and  the  author's  differing  so 
essentially. 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

For  some  months  past  William's  mind  had  been  oc- 
cupied with  the  idea  of  another  book,  and  on  one  of  these 
May-days  I  was  called  into  his  study  to  listen  to  the  in- 
troductory chapter  of  "  Gravenhurst."  But  although  he 
only  wrote  two  short  papers  for  the  magazine,  the  book  did 
not  get  on  very  fast  during  the  happy  times  spent,  first 
at  Mount  Hazel,  and  then  at  Llanberis.  Our  mountain 
walks  were  so  long,  and  we  were  so  much  together.  Noth- 
ing, indeed,  was  materially  changed  in  our  outward  posi- 
tion, but  obstacles  weighed  less  upon  our  spirits  than  they 
had  done  at  Dunkeld  ;  we  succeeded  better,  at  all  events, 
in  pushing  them  out  of  sight ;  and  the  nearly  five  months 
of  constant  companionship  had  brought  about  a  still  more 
complete  sympathy.  For  under  his  influence  I  could  not 
but  grow  a  little  wiser  and  worthier.  Parting  was  a 
great  pain,  but  this  time  I  think  he  felt  it  even  more 
than  I. 

(From  the  Manuscript.) 

I  find  in  my  pocket-book  that  toward  the  end  of  my 
stay  he  "  talked  of  ways  and  means."  But  the  entries  are 
very  meagre,  and  monotonously  happy,  —  "  So  happy  !  " 
My  precious,  perfect  mother,  enhanced  every  joy  by 
her  sharing.  I  was  not  very  robust,  and  certainly 
overwalked  myself  that  summer.  I  well  remember  his 
anxiety  about  it,  but  the  spell  of  the  mountains  was  too 
strong.  Dear  Mount  Eileo,  our  favorite  hill,  so  green, 
so  cheerful  with  its  view  of  the  Straits ;  dear  spurs  of 
Snowdon,  whence  we  looked  down  on  the  Pass  !  Dear 
country  walks,  that  I  have  taken  alone,  —  remembering ! 


256  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

I  was  busy  at  Llanberis,  as  I  had  been  at  Mount  Hazel ; 
translating  Victor  Hugo's  possible  poems  in  the  Legendes 
given  me  by  Mr.  Smith,  summarizing,  writing  tales ; 
making  little  indeed,  but  still  the  small  sums  were  cheer- 
ing. He  wrote  some  of  the  conversations  in  "  Graven- 
hurst,"  but  he  was  not  absorbed  in  work.  I  used  to  pre- 
sent myself  at  his  window  before  breakfast,  with  a  few 
raspberries  or  a  flower,  and  often  in  the  afternoon  I 
walked  with  him  up  and  down  his  long  and  rather  dark 
room.  He  was  always  cheerful,  radiant,  except  indeed 
when  the  parting  came.  This  time  I  was  happy  even 
on  that  day !  —  the  twenty-fifth  of  September.  I  felt  that 
our  hearts  and  minds  were  more  inextricably  interwoven 
than  ever. 

I  have  been  reading  over  letters  to  Mary  written  dur- 
ing these  months,  and  they  are  full  of  loving  details.  I 
tell  her  when  the  end  of  that  happiness  had  nearly  come  : 
"  I  have  been  living  in  such  a  pure,  high  moral  atmos- 
phere !  Never  a  personal  topic,  never  anything  censori- 
ous or  small,  never  a  cloud  of  temper,  a  touch  of  selfish- 
ness. Italian  politics  have  interested  us  a  good  deal,  of 
course.  It  is  delightful  to  talk  over  the  paper  with  him 
—  he  is  so  enthusiastic  as  well  as  wise.  I  think  I  shall 
have  nothing  at  all  to  say  to  people  in  general !  They 
will  seem  so  narrow,  so  intolerant,  so  very  little !  His  is 
a  delightful  wholesale  way  of  dealing  with  such  questions. 
...  The  parting  will  be  terrible  to  ine,  and  he  too  will 
feel  it,  but  I  thank  God  I  know  such  a  man,  and  I  am 
sure  that  nothing  but  death  will  ever  break  the  tie  be- 
tween us."  It  was  this  certainty  that  upheld  me.  His 
letter,  written  the  evening  of  the  day  we  parted,  ends, 
64  You  wished  to  be  missed,  you  said  —  but  you  would  not 
wish  to  be  so  much  missed  as  you  are."  Oh,  I  too  was 
waking  to  the  anguish  of  the  parted  life  —  which  always 
got  worse  and  worse. 

[One  of  the  friends  who  had  visited  Mrs.  Gumming  and 


UNITED.  257 

her    daughter    at    Mount    Hazel,    "beautiful    Eugenie 

W ,"  was  soon  to  have  a  visit  from  Lucy  at  her  home, 

Bronywendon,  and  invited  Mr.  Smith  to  come  also ;  and 
this  invitation  he  after  some  hesitation  accepted.]  On 
the  fourth  of  October  we  walked  by  the  shore  to  Col- 
wyn,  and  I  showed  him  the  caves,  haunts  of  my  child- 
hood, of  which  two  years  before  he  had  written  :  "  Yes  ! 
To  visit  with  you  those  caves  you  used  to  sit  in  when  a 
child,  taking  your  Bible  to  read  in  there  all  alone  —  that 
would  be  very  pleasant,  more  than  pleasant."  It  was 
more  than  pleasant!  We  were  both  in  highest  spirits, 
and  had  come  to  talking  somewhat  less  vaguely  of  the 
future.  The  phrase  that  had  sprung  up  at  Dunkeld, 
"  There  is  no  saying  what  may  happen,"  had  by  this  time 
expanded  into  a  dream  of  Switzerland  seen  together.  It 
seemed,  among  other  impossibilities,  impossible  that  I 
should  leave  my  parents  entirely  —  but  how  if  the  sum- 
mers were  his  and  mine  ?  Something  —  if  not  of  impos- 
sibility —  of  extreme  difficulty  was  arraying  itself  against 
any  repetition  of  the  last  three  summers.  Comment,  op- 
position, had  begun  —  would  grow.  What  was  to  be 
done  ?  As  he  wrote  a  few  weeks  later,  "  I  cannot  be 
given  up  —  cannot  have  no  more  happy  summers."  But 
just  now  we  were  together,  and  I  can  only  recall  one  touch 
of  sadness  —  on  the  shore  one  Saturday  afternoon  when 
the  sun  got  low  and  he  spoke  of  his  far  past,  of  certain  in- 
congruities between  his  calling  and  his  tendencies,  of  his 
loneliness  of  thought  even  among  his  kindred.  Sunday 
was  a  blessed  day  of  rambling  on  breezy  downs,  the  shin- 
ing sea  below  —  it  was  all  present  enjoyment  —  a  pres- 
ent so  bright  it  seemed  to  include  and  ensure  the  future. 
On  Monday  morning  there  was  a  long  stroll  in  the  shrub- 
bery, a  parting  at  the  Abergele  station  that  had  no  sad- 
ness at  least  outwardly,  and  he  travelled  on  to  Bath,  and 
I  left  our  sweet  and  sympathizing  hostess  and  returned  to 
Garthewin. 


258  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

.  .  .  During  our  days  at  Bronywendon  a  book  to  be 
translated  came  to  me,  Madame  de  Gasparin's  "  Near  and 
Heavenly  Horizons,"  and  it  soon  appeared  that  this  book 
was  wanted  speedily  —  alarmingly  so  to  me,  whose  life  at 
Garthewin  had  social  interruptions.  Ah,  how  joyously, 
beloved,  you  came  to  the  rescue  !  "  Tell  me  if  you  think 
I  can  help.  Will  the  hard  words  be  too  many  for  me  ? 
Will  you  have  as  much  trouble  in  looking  over  and  re- 
copying  my  translation  as  doing  it  yourself  ?  "  Looking 
over!  But  to  his  simple  unconsciousness  that  did  not 
seem  preposterous  as  it  was.  Indeed,  I  had  cause  to  be 
grateful  for  his  proffered  assistance,  for  as  his  next  letter 
shows  the  task  was  too  heavy.  "  What  you  tell  me  about 
your  eyesight  and  the  pain  across  the  forehead  quite 
alarms  me.  What  are  all  the  translations  in  the  world, 
and  all  that  ever  came  of  them,  to  your  own  precious 
eyes  and  precious  brain.  .  .  .  Yesterday  I  found  my  old 
friend  Mrs.  Haughton  (formerly  Julia  Day)  here,  and 
we  talked  about  various  things,  and  I  told  how  very  hap- 
pily my  last  two  summers  had  passed  away,  owing  to  the 
society  of  a  dear  friend  ;  and  of  course  she  asked  the  name 
and  many  other  questions;  and  I  answered  all  very 
frankly,  and  honestly  confessed  that  if  and  if —  in  truth 
I  disguised  nothing  that  had  reference  to  my  own  feel- 
ings. .  .  .  As  we  used  to  say,  '  Who  knows  what  may 
happen  !  '  I  wish  I  had  more  of  hope  in  my  composition 
—  but  nothing  in  my  life  has  educated  hope.  There 
have  been  no  successes  —  only  respectable  failures." 

He  got  to  Brighton  Saturday  evening,  instantly  set 
about  the  book,  translated  "  The  Hegelian,"  and  on  Mon- 
day morning  despatched  it  to  the  "  dear  collaborates," 
and  wrote  in  the  evening :  "  Certainly  I  ought  to  assist, 
for  is  it  not  our  journey  it  is  to  help  pay  for  ?  "  Hence- 
forth the  bright  dancing  letters  were  very  full  of  this  joint 
work  —  which  part  he  was  to  undertake,  which  I.  Two 
of  the  tales  were  translated  by  him,  "  The  Hegelian  "  and 


UNITED.  259 

"  The  Sculptor,"  and  a  good  deal  of  the  first  part  of  the 
"  Heavenly  Horizons."  Never  was  he  brighter  and  more 
endearing  than  when  helping,  and  these  dear  letters  are 
full  too  of  valuable  literary  suggestion,  thrown  out  with 
his  own  light,  lightest  touch.  The  happy  task  over,  other 
subjects  came  up.  Whether  it  were  Switzerland  or  Pat- 
terdale,  must  there  not  be  before  our  journey  a  "  prelim- 
inary quarter  of  an  hour  ?  "  And  then  ?  Indeed  all  was 
so  vague  that  looking  back  I  marvel  that  we  dreamed  so 
boldly.  I  was  much  encouraged,  however,  by  the  prospect 
of  a  little  work.  Our  "  Horizons  "  won  us  twenty-five 
pounds  —  a  little  trumpery  story  of  mine  was  ordered,1 
and  that  was  to  bring  in  sixty  pounds.  '*  Bravo  for  the 
sixty  pounds  !  "  he  exclaims  —  though  he  exhorts  me  not 
to  write  merely  for  money  —  a  thing  he  never  could  have 
done.  To  me  the  temptation  to  try  lay  solely  there ! 

.  .  .  There  are  still  —  and  no  wonder —  touches  in  the 
dear  letters,  half  playful,  half  sad.  He  was  at  what  he 
called  "  spider's  work,"  about  Causation  and  the  like,  and 
there  were  misgivings  as  to  "  what  sort  of  a  companion  is 
one  who  has  long  indulged  in  his  own  thoughts  —  worth- 
less things,  but  they  have  grown  as  necessary  to  him  as 
wine  or  tobacco  to  other  men.  A  poor  old  weaver,  whose 
web  is  not  even  made  to  sell !  I  cannot  think  what  is  to 
be  made  of  him.  If  we  could  put  him  in  a  corner  of  our 
palace,  that  might  be  well.  If  not  —  are  we  to  go  into  his 
little  shed  ?  Seems  impossible,  and  we  a  natural  prin- 
cess. The  weaver  would  be  rich  enough  —  but  we  ?  " 
Then  my  life  sounded  so  social :  "  All  my  difficulty  lies 
in  the  impossibility  there  seems  of  monopolizing  such  a 
bird.'*  For  him,  speaking  of  a  singularly  successful  and 
social  career,  he  says :  "  A  bright  life,  that  I  can  very 
well  understand,  yet  understanding  it  well,  and  perhaps 
not  quite  incapable  of  enjoying  it,  I  should  infinitely 
prefer  the  life  of  Mount  Hazel." 

1  "  Memoirs  of  an  Unknown  Life."     It  appeared  in  Good  Words. 


260  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

I  have  given  several  extracts  from  the  twenty-six  let- 
ters that  came  between  the  ninth  of  October  and  the  four- 
teenth of  December.  That  day  put  an  end  to  all  anxie- 
ties, misgivings,  scruples.  Oh,  how  can  there  be  pessi- 
mists in  a  world  that  holds  such  joy  as  mine,  that  winter 
morning !  Ah,  dear  bundle  before  me  as  I  write  —  fifty 
letters,  in  not  one  of  which  is  there  one  sad  note  —  all 
serene  hope,  tender,  unutterably  precious,  confident  affec- 
tion, —  not  from  one  of  these  shall  an  extract  be  made. 
Sweet  letters  —  that  I  shall  burn  some  day,  when  the 
parted  years  are  nearly  over  —  there  are  one  or  two  of  you 
I  will  lay  apart,  and  my  dead  hand  shall  be  folded  over 
them  in  unutterable  thankfulness. 

The  weeks  sped  away  very  busily.  I  had  a  beloved 
friend  who  was  in  sorrow  —  I  saw  very  much  of  her.  Late 
in  the  evening  my  Mary  would  bring  me  a  strong  cup  of 
coffee,  and  I  would  get  on  with  my  story,  which  was  just 
what  might  have  been  expected,  hasty  and  trivial,  though 
he  said  not  wholly  lacking  in  spirit.  It  brought  in  the 
promised  sixty  pounds,  however,  in  the  course  of  the 
spring. 

{From  the  Memoir.) 

I  will  give  two  grave  passages  from  the  pile  of  joyous 
letters  between  the  14th  of  December  and  our  marriage :  — 

"  And  so  my  dear  bird  was  a  little  serious,  a  little  sad. 
We  should  both  be  very  shallow  people  if  we  were  not  a 
little  serious.  I  make  very  serious  vows  to  myself.  I  do 
hope  that  you  shall  never  have  cause  for  any  other  sadness 
than  what  comes  inevitably  to  us  all.  I  will  4  love  her, 
comfort  her,  and  honour  her.'  I  should  often  repeat  to 
myself  those  lines  — 

'  No  more  companionless 
Although  he  trod  the  path  of  high  intent,' 

if  I  did  not  feel  that  there  was  a  certain  presumption  in 
my  talking  of  '  the  path  of  high  intent.'  Yet,  although 
with  little  success,  and  very  little  power,  I  have  always 


UNITED.  261 

put  before  myself  a  high  aim  in  my  studies  and  my  writ- 
ings. And  I  should  like  to  die  still  striving,  though  I  get 
no  higher  than  to  strive." 

And  this,  in  answer  to  words  of  mine  disclaiming  any 
presumptuous  wish  to  change  "  the  nature  of  my  thinker's 
thoughts : "  — 

"  Since  I  wrote,  another  letter  came  from  Edinburgh, 
for  which  I  ought  to  thank  you  still  more.  It  gave  me 
reassurance  that  my  dear  bird  and  I  shall  always  be  en 

rapport. 

'  I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honour  more/  — 

so  runs  some  knightly  rhyme.  I,  who  am  no  knight,  must 
substitute  the  word  truth  for  honour,  though  it  mars  the 


verse." 


{From  the  Manuscript.) 

On  the  eleventh  of  February  I  left  Edinburgh  and  my 
most  kind  and  partial  parents  —  left  them  laden  with  their 
blessings  —  and  travelled  through  the  night  to  my  Blanche's 
home  [Mrs.  Budworth] .  On  the  sixteenth  I  reached  that 
of  the  precious  friend  from  whose  house  I  was  to  be  mar- 
ried. [Mrs.  Ruck  —  "  the  one,  perhaps,"  says  the  Memoir, 
"  to  whose  noble  and  tender  nature  the  kindred  nature  of 
my  husband  most  fully  responded."]  That  evening  he 
came.  On  the  evening  of  the  fourth  of  March,  many  of 
my  early  friends  gathered  round  me,  all  welcomed  by  my 
sweet  hostess.  I  will  give  a  few  extracts  from  letters  of 
theirs  written  to  my  mother  on  the  following  day.  True, 
it  is  mostly  of  me  that  they  speak,  but  I  was  his,  —  I  like 
that  kind  words  should  have  been  spoken  of  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Ruck  bears  her  testimony  to  the  ease  and  pleas- 
antness of  the  gathering.  "  Mr.  Smith  went  through  every 
trying  scene  with  the  utmost  cheerfulness,  even  the  inspec- 
tion of  the  many  friends.  I  don't  even  think  he  would 
have  shrunk  from  a  wedding  breakfast,  speeches  and  all. 
.  .  .  Colonel  Yorke  told  me  that  he  had  seen  much  of  the 


262  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

world,  and  considered  that  he  had  himself  many  attached 
friends,  but  that  nothing  he  had  ever  seen  equalled  the 
cordial  love  of  Lucy  and  her  friends." 

Mrs.  Cotton  says :  "I  found  Mr.  Smith  so  kindly  dis- 
posed to  become  friends  at  once  that  we  talked  and 
laughed  together  as  if  we  had  known  each  other  for  years. 
His  genial  cordiality  surprised  me,  for  I  expected  to  find 
him  a  shy  recluse,  instead  of  which  he  responded  to  all 
our  nonsense,  and  seated  himself  amongst  each  knot  of 
old  friends  as  if  he  could  not  hear  enough  of  what  we  were 
saying." 

My  Blanche  —  my  sister  for  years  —  writes:  "Surely 
a  bride  never  entered  the  new  life  more  wrapped  in  the 
affection  of  loving  friends.  It  has  been  such  a  happy  time 
for  us  all !  ...  The  darling  had  such  a  radiant  look  of 
happiness  and  confidence  in  her  dear  face.  Mr.  Smith 
might  well  look  worshipping,  and  I  do  from  my  heart 
believe  that  he  will  make  her  very  happy  as  it  seems  such 
a  large,  kindly  nature.  There  is  something  about  him 
that  inspires  confidence  at  once.  When  I  had  been  talk- 
ing half  an  hour,  I  wanted  to  tell  him  the  history  of  my 
life." 

The  same  loving  band  stood  round  us  on  the  following 
morning.  At  St.  John's  Church,  Netting  Hill,  on  Tues- 
day, the  fifth  of  March,  1861,  we  were  married.  (End  of 
the  Manuscript.) 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

We  spent  some  weeks  at  Hastings  and  at  Brighton ; 
then  settled  ourselves  for  the  summer  at  Tent  Cottage 
(near  Coniston)  —  a  green  nest,  with  tall  trees  round,  that 
my  beloved  mother  shared  with  us.  There  are  words  of 
my  husband's  that  often  recur  to  my  mind :  — 

"It  takes  so  little  to  make  Earth  a  Heaven." 
Of  worldly  goods,  so  very  little !     Were  I  to  name  the 
income  that  procured  for  us  the  ideal  of  both,  I  should 


UNITED.  263 

excite  in  some  a  smile  of  incredulity.  But  it  is  literally 
true  that  from  first  to  last  we  were  never  conscious  of 
a  privation  —  never  perturbed  by  care.  Whatever  our 
income,  we  always  contrived  to  have  it  in  advance,  and  it 
was  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  my  husband's  character  to 
be  equally  prudent  and  generous,  a  combination  that  much 
in  my  former  life  had  taught  me  to  prize.  But  indeed  all 
that  life  now  seemed  to  me  requisite  training  for  such 
"measureless  content"  as  mine.  I  had  had  perplexity 
enough  to  enhance  the  rest  of  reliance  on  a  perfectly  sound 
judgment ;  buffeting  enough  to  make  me  habitually  alive 
to  a  justice  and  tenderness  that  never  failed. 

It  was  during  this  summer  that  he  wrote  down,  on  the 
inside  of  an  old  envelope,  the  following  lines  —  an  answer, 
I  imagine,  to  some  conventional  prompting  of  which  I 
must  have  been  guilty.  They  are  so  characteristic  that  I 
give  them :  — 

Oh  vex  me  not  with  needless  cry 

Of  what  the  world  may  think  or  claim  ; 

Let  the  sweet  life  pass  sweetly  by, 

The  same,  the  same,  and  every  day  the  same. 

Thee,  Nature,  Thought  —  that  burns  in  me 

A  living  and  consuming  flame  — 
These  must  suffice  ;  let  the  life  be 

The  same,  the  same,  and  evermore  the  same. 

Here  find  I  taskwork,  here  society  — 
Thou  art  my  gold,  thou  art  my  fame  ; 

Let  the  sweet  life  pass  sweetly  by, 

The  same,  the  same,  and  every  day  the  same. 

The  "sweet  life"  was  not  disturbed  during  the  re- 
mainder of  the  year,  but  we  changed  its  scene  to  Keswick 
—  to  ^he  house  where  we  had  first  met  five  years  before  — 
and  then  to  Brighton.  During  the  summer  William  had 
written  several  articles,  —  one  for  the  "  British  Quarterly" 
(of  which  Dr.  Vaughan  was  then  editor),  on  the  poems  of 


264  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

Mrs.  Browning  —  poems  so  dear  to  us  both  that  her  death 
that  summer  seemed  to  bring  personal  loss  and  pain. 
While  the  winter  sped  on  at  Brighton,  "  Gravenhurst " 
grew  rapidly.  William  wrote  it  undisturbed  by  my  pres- 
ence—  a  great  triumph  to  me  —  I  sitting  the  while  at 
another  table  writing  too.  For  through  the  kindness  of 
Mr.  Strahan  —  most  enterprising  and  liberal  of  publishers 
—  I  had  for  several  years  a  good  deal  of  translation  to  do. 
This  was  one  of  the  finishing  touches  to  the  completeness 
of  our  life.  Not  to  speak  of  my  pleasure  in  contributing 
to  our  income,  I  delighted  in  compulsory  occupation ;  and 
to  see  me  busy  over  my  manuscript  gave  my  husband  a 
more  comfortable  sense  of  security  from  casual  remarks 
than  he  would  have  had  if  I  had  only  been  working  or 
reading.  Then,  when  the  pen  was  thrown  down,  both 
enjoyed  the  walk  all  the  more  thoroughly,  the  more  child- 
ishly —  in  both  there  was  much  of  the  child. 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

Tent  Cottage,  July,  1861.  I  never  even  wish  not  to 
have  to  think  a  little  of  ways  and  means.  Believe  me,  it 
is  an  element  of  happiness  rather  than  the  reverse  —  calls 
forth  energy,  and  makes  life  fuller.  I  like  the  feeling  of 
being  able  to  do  little  things  for  William.  If  we  were 
better  off,  it  would  not  be  I  who  darned  and  mended,  it 
would  be  some  paid  and  more  practical  needle,  and  then  I 
should  have  less  to  do  —  should  therefore  be  less  happy. 
...  I  Ve  been  doing  a  short  story  for  Mr.  Strahan,  who 
tells  me  to  send  him  two  more  such  by  the  end  of  the 
month,  but  I  cannot  think  of  any  —  wanting  to  reserve 
my  small  stock  of  ideas  for  a  larger  tale.  .  .  .  My  happy 
life  does  not  give  me  much  to  write  about ;  one  day  is 
blissfully  like  another.  Thank  God,  William  is  well — • 
perhaps  not  quite  so  well  as  he  was  at  Hastings  and  Edin- 
burgh —  this  is  not  the  climate  for  him.  But  there  never 

o 

is  a  complaint  of  not  being  well,  never  a  cloud  upon  his 


UNITED.  265 

dear  forehead,  never  a  moment's  depression  of  spirits.  He 
is  always  busy,  and  after  his  morning's  work  dashes  down 
to  me,  playful  and  bright  as  I  never  saw  any  one  else. 

Keswick,  Autumn,  1861.  Last  night,  thinking  Wil- 
liam out  long,  I  wrapped  myself  in  the  railway  rug,  and 
flew  some  way  up  the  Ambleside  road.  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  glorious  it  was,  light  as  day,  and  the  snow-covered 
mountains  clear  and  white  against  the  deep  blue  of  the 
quite  cloudless  sky.  William  had  gone  down  to  see  them 
reflected  in  the  lake,  which  was  quite  calm.  Skiddaw 
stretched  out  such  a  mighty  form  beneath  the  winding- 
sheet  —  very  weird,  and  all  so  still,  —  the  mountains  so 
solemn.  'T  is  a  charming  country  in  winter,  and  our 
rooms  so  pleasant !  The  three  windows  have  red  curtains. 
Here  is  the  plan  of  the  room  —  very  childish  of  me,  but 
you  '11  like  to  see  our  fixings.  The  sweet  days  are  all 
peace  and  brightness.  I  see  William  clings  a  good  deal 
to  our  present  comforts,  and  I  don't  much  fancy  we  shall 
be  off  till  the  first  Tuesday  in  December.  To  me  it  is  all 
the  same,  so  he  is  well.  He  expects  some  letters  early 
in  December,  and  does  not  want  to  move  —  you  know  he 
never  does  want  to  move.  I  am  going  now  to  my  work  — 
what  a  blessing  compulsory  occupation  is !  I  wish  every 
one  had  it.  It  is  one  of  the  sweetnesses  of  small  means. 
Ah,  darling,  be  sure  all  life's  darkest  trials  are  quite  com- 
patible with  wealth. 

Brighton,  Jan.  19,  1862.  I  ought  to  be  getting  on 
with  my  story,  but  we  are  idle  this  morning,  writing  let- 
ters, talking  our  happy  nonsense,  and  we  have  had  a  caller, 
a  Mr.  Allen,  a  clergyman.  He  wanted  William  to  dine 
with  him,  but  he  won't  go.  Bless  him !  He  has  got  quite 
settled  here  in  our  nice  room,  and  his  cheerfulness  and 
brilliancy  are  indescribable.  And  now,  beloved  child, 
God  grant  you  a  very  happy  New  Year  —  many  years, 
each  fuller  and  richer  than  the  last.  This  life  is  a  blessed 
inheritance,  if  we  do  not  mar  what  God  gives.  With 


266  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

health,  occupation,  and  love,  how  fraught  everything  is 
with  pleasure.  I  find  little  pleasures  spring  up  every- 
where. I  needs  must  tremble  a  little  in  parting  with  this 
dear  Old  Year,  that  has  crowned  all  my  life  —  for  which 
it  all  seems  to  have  been  education  only,  only  preparation. 
But  our  Father  knoweth  what  things  we  have  need  of,  and 
corne  what  may  I  have  been  quite  happy. 


CHAPTEE  XIX. 

"  GRAVENHURST." 

"  GRAVENHURST,  or  Thoughts  on  Good  and  Evil,  by 
William  Smith,"  appeared  in  the  spring  of  1862.  This 
book  it  is  which  will  best  show  us  what  effect  has  been 
wrought  in  him  by  this  mutual  experience,  in  which  the 
woman's  share  has  been  told  by  herself.  Into  her  story  it 
was  impossible  to  break  with  a  word  of  comment.  What 
a  new  world  she  brought  into  his  life,  every  reader  feels. 
No  less  clear  is  it  how  her  energy  and  concentration  sup- 
plied the  need  in  his  irresolution.  Every  page  illustrates 
how  perfectly  she  supplemented  all  the  wants  of  his 
nature.  And  it  should  be  recognized  no  less  that  he  had 
in  himself  the  very  qualities  to  fill  out  and  perfect  her  life. 
Especially,  his  habitual  absorption  in  lofty  thoughts  gave 
to  him  an  elevation  and  serenity  which  was  like  a  new 
atmosphere  to  a  woman  absorbed  as  she  had  been  in 
personal  cares.  The  woman's  heart,  intensely  and  tremu- 
lously alive  with  personal  sympathies,  linked  in  devoted 
service  to  burdened  lives,  all  whose  burdens  it  feels,  car- 
ries in  itself  almost  of  necessity  a  habitual  agitation.  It 
is  such  incessant,  mother-like  solicitudes  that  prompted 
Mrs.  Browning's  line  :  — 

"  And  who  at  once  can  love  and  rest  ?  " 

From  these  tender  troubles,  this  anxiety  inseparable  from 
a  life  made  up  wholly  of  personal  ties,  the  change  to  a 
society  in  which  the  great  interest  is  in  lofty  impersonal 
themes  is  like  going  out  of  a  busy  household  into  the 
tranquil  night  under  the  solemn  stars.  And  when  this 


268  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

larger  outlook,  this  companionship  with  things  sublime 
and  eternal,  was  found  in  a  nature  of  high  purity  and 
sweetness  ;  when  too  this  nature  was  felt  to  profoundly 
need  just  such  care  and  love  as  she  could  give  —  what 
wonder  she  was  filled  and  satisfied  ? 

What  he  found  in  their  union  is  told  best  in  the  verses 
she  repeats,  —  asking  only  that  the  "  sweet  life  "  be  "  the 
same,  the  same,  and  evermore  the  same."  It  was  as  nat- 
ural to  him  to  keep  within  himself  the  secret  of  his  bliss, 
as  it  was  to  her  to  share  with  her  friends  all  she  could 
impart  of  the  happy  story.  Dr.  Lietch,  who  had  been  a 
friend  to  him  amid  his  solitude,  wrote  to  her  in  later 
years  of  a  single  swift  glimpse  of  the  new  life  within.  "  I 
remember  well  seeing  you  at  Derwentwater  Place,  the 
year  after  you  were  married.  He  had  used  to  say  in  a  sad 
tone,  '  I  shall  never  marry.'  On  parting  with  him  at  the 
door,  on  this  occasion,  I  recollect  in  grasping  his  hand  I 
said,  '  You  're  happy  now,  Thorn  dale  ! '  And  he  said 
with  a  flash  of  joy  in  his  face,  '  I  am  happy  I  '  and  darted 
suddenly  away." 

It  is  in  his  work,  in  "  Gravenhurst  "  in  comparison  with 
"  Thorndale,"  that  we  most  distinctly  recognize  what  the 
gain  to  him  had  been.  His  love  had  not  withdrawn  him 
from  the  pursuit  and  the  passion  of  truth :  it  had  guided 
that  pursuit  and  given  to  that  passion  a  fuller  fruition. 
The  philosophy  of  "  Gravenhurst  "is  an  application  and 
extension  of  that  which  gains  the  predominance  in  "  Thorn- 
dale."  But  the  tone  has  changed  from  interrogation  to 
affirmation.  One  recalls  that  touching  sentence  in  the 
earlier  book :  "  Did  he  to  the  last  continue  to  doubt,  to 
hope,  to  aspire,  and  then  again  throw  away  his  aspira- 
tions ?  —  say  rather  give  them  away  to  some  other  and 
liappier  mind,  and  still  see  and  love  them  there,  though 
he  could  not  retain  them  for  himself  ? "  In  "  Graven- 
hurst," we  seem  to  find  that  "  other  and  happier  mind," 
or  rather,  Thorn  dale's  own  mind,  but  now  by  happiness 


"  GRA  YEN  HURST."  269 

so  enlarged  and  strengthened  that  it  grasps  with  the  ardor 
of  a  faith  the  ideas  which  before  were  only  a  plausible 
but  doubtful  hypothesis.  The  change  is  one  which  recalls 
the  opening  passage  of  his  early  poem  "  Guidone,"  —  to 
which  might  be  well  applied  the  saying  of  Emerson,  that 
"  the  soul  contains  in  itself  the  secret  that  shall  presently 
befall  it." 

That  cold,  unreal,  shadow-peopled  realm 

To  which  much  meditation  wears  our  world,  — 

Where  long  I  walked,  oft  startling  as  I  trod, 

As  if  from  dreams,  at  recollected  self, 

And  this  substantial  being,  — 

I  have  at  length  escaped  :  I  also  live  ! 

Mine,  too,  this  earth  whereon  I  plant  my  foot ! 

Mine,  too,  the  sky  whereto  I  lift  my  gaze ! 

And  the  still  brighter  climes  beyond  are  mine, 

By  the  bold  faith  which  man  sustains  in  man  ! 

—  Our  best  beliefs  from  best  affections  spring, 

And  solitude  is  ignorance. 

A  firm  conviction,  and  a  deep,  grave  happiness,  pervade 
the  pages  of  "  Gravenhurst.  Here,  as  in  "Thorndale," 
the  two  predominating  ideas  are,  first,  that  the  solution  of 
our  difficulties  lies  in  looking  at  the  whole,  —  in  seeing  the 
individual  in  his  relations  to  others  and  to  the  sum  of  being, 
and  in  viewing  the  past,  present,  and  future  as  completing 
and  interpreting  each  other ;  and,  secondly,  that  there  is 
recognizable  a  progress  of  humanity.  In  "  Thorndale,"  it 
is  the  hope  of  a  great  future,  for  the  race  and  the  indi- 
vidual, that  chiefly  reassures  and  inspires.  But  "  Graven- 
hurst,"  while  confirming  this  hope,  yet  dwells  on  the  good 
of  this  present  existence  with  a  heartiness  and  satisfac- 
tion not  felt  in  "  Thorndale."  It  is  a  sober  and  tempered 
joy,  but  over  all  the  landscape  near  and  far  lie  sweet  and 
sunny  hues.  "  Gravenhurst  "  is  not  only  a  happier  book 
than  "  Thorndale,"  but  closer  to  actual  existence.  Its  au- 
thor is  a  wiser  man.  He  has  made  personal  acquaintance 
with  a  vast  province,  with  which  before  he  had  little  more 


270  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

than  hearsay  acquaintance.     He  has  not  only  tasted  but 
drunk  deep  of 

"  A  sacred  and  home-felt  delight, 
The  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss." 

The  author  writes  of  "  Gravenhurst "  that  while  "  Thorn- 
dale  "  was  called  a  conflict  of  opinions  this  book  might 
be  called  a  harmony.  The  volume  like  its  predecessor  (of 
which  it  is  less  than  half  the  size)  is  mainly  a  series  of 
dialogues ;  though  in  this  case  the  systematic  exposition 
introduces  the  conversations  instead  of  following  them, 
and  is  perhaps  of  greater  relative  importance.  There  are 
two  representatives  of  classes  that  have  no  spokesman  in 
"  Thorndale,"  —  a  woman  and  a  Protestant  clergyman. 
The  Vicar  is  the  broad-minded  pastor  of  the  village  church. 
Ada  Newcome  is  a  lovely  and  thoughtful  girl,  the  victim 
of  a  severe  and  permanent  lameness.  Ada  —  who,  we  may 
say  in  passing,  bears  very  little  personal  resemblance  to 
Lucy  Smith  —  is  attached  to  the  Christian  church,  glad  to 
rest  in  some  degree  on  its  authority,  but  little  concerned 
with  dogmas  and  ceremonies.  Her  uncle,  General  Mans- 
field, who  is  a  retired  Indian  officer,  and  Sandford,  who 
directly  represents  the  author,  complete  the  little  company. 
It  is  a  quite  different  society  from  the  strenuous  theorists 
who  battle  in  the  pages  of  "  Thorndale."  These  person- 
ages represent  more  of  actual  experience,  more  maturity  of 
feeling,  more  domestic  yet  more  largely  human  relations. 
For  scenery,  too,  we  exchange  the  Bay  of  Naples  and  the 
summit  of  the  Bigi  for  a  quiet  English  village.  Some 
loss  there  is,  compared  with  "  Thorndale,"  in  dramatic  con- 
trast and  keen  interplay  of  diverse  minds.  We  miss  a 
little  that  terrible  fellow,  Seckendorf.  We  know  that  in 
the  presence  of  the  gentle  Ada  no  one  will  have  the  heart 
to  speak  unreservedly  the  cruelest  side  of  facts.  Yet, 
upon  the  whole,  we  find  here  not  only  a  more  affirmative 
philosophy,  but  a  riper  judgment,  and  a  far  more  invigor- 
ating impulse.  "  Thorndale  "  leaves  the  reader  looking 


"  GRA  VENHURST."  271 

fascinated  on  the  vast  human  scene  with  all  its  mystery  ; 
Jiope  gathering  strength  above  fear,  and  glimpses  widening 
of  order  in  what  seemed  confusion.  "  Gravenhurst "  deep- 
ens the  hope  ;  extends  the  view  of  order  into  some  of  the 
very  darkest  spots ;  and,  above  all,  the  reader  rises  from  it 
nerved  for  vigorous  combat,  inspired  to  be  actor  as  well 
as  spectator. 

In  the  chivalrous  stories  of  old,  the  brave  knight  who 
would  honor  his  lady-love  goes  forth  to  battle  with  some 
creature  of  evil,  some  robber  or  giant  or  dragon.  The 
knight  of  our  story,  vowed  from  his  youth  to  the  service 
of  truth  as  a  religion,  blessed  now  with  a  love  which  is 
both  happiness  and  inspiration,  —  he  too,  man  of  peace- 
fulest outward  life  though  he  be,  goes  on  a  venturous 
quest  against  the  fellest  monster  that  through  the  genera- 
tions has  dismayed  the  mind  of  man,  —  the  problem  of 
Evil.  In  most  modest  guise  he  goes  forth  to  combat ;  no 
gay  colors  adorn  his  arms  ;  no  trumpet-flourish  rings.  So 
unassuming  and  sedate  indeed  is  this  essay  that  the  world, 
though  giving  to  it  something  of  welcome  and  praise, 
scarce  took  due  note  of  its  message.  That  message  let  the 
reader  judge  for  himself,  so  far  as  that  can  be  judged  by 
extracts  which  deserves  close  reading  from  the  first  line  to 
the  last. 

Here  is  the  opening  scene,  and  the  setting  forth  of  the 
problem  :  — 

It  was  the  hour  of  sunset.  As  I  paused  upon  the  parapet  of 
our  little  bridge,  the  distant  Welsh  hills  were  glowing  in  their 
purple  splendour ;  the  river  ran  gold  at  my  feet ;  every  branch 
of  every  graceful  tree  that  hung  silently  in  the  air  received 
and  reflected  a  new  beauty  from  that  entire  scene  of  enchant- 
ment to  which  also  it  brought  its  own  contribution.  Such  har- 
mony there  is  in  nature.  The  whole,  which  is  formed  itself  of 
separate  parts,  gives  to  each  part  its  meaning  and  its  charm. 
Yet  even  here,  in  this  scene  of  enchantment,  I  was  compelled 
to  recall  to  my  imagination  that  poor  woman  whose  desolate 


272  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

hearth  I  had  lately  visited,  —  I  was  compelled  to  revive  those  dis- 
cordant scenes  of  war,  of  carnage,  of  treachery,  of  famine,  which 
my  friend,  an  old  Indian  General,  had  been  dilating  upon.  No 
harmony,  then,  and  little  peace,  in  this  other  world  of  Humanity. 
Is  there  truly  some  diabolic  element  amongst  us?  Does  dis- 
order reign  in  the  highest  part  of  creation  ?  Has  the  beneficent 
harmony  which  human  nature  should  disclose  been  invaded, 
broken  up,  irrecoverably  destroyed  by  some  tyrannous  spirit  of 
evil  ?  It  seems  so. 

And  yet  —  I  reflected  within  myself —  since  wherever  science 
has  penetrated,  disorder  and  confusion  disappear,  and  a  harmo- 
nious whole  is  presented  to  us,  it  may  happen  that  this  sense 
of  diabolic  confusion  in  the  arena  of  human  life  would  vanish 
before  the  light  of  a  wider  and  clearer  knowledge.  We  suffer 
—  there  is  no  doubt  of  that  —  and  we  naturally  speak  and  think 
under  the  sharp  pang  of  our  present  agony ;  but  the  ultimate 
and  overruling  judgment  which  we  form  of  human  life  should 
be  taken  from  some  calm,  impersonal  point  of  view.  We 
should  command  the  widest  horizon  possible.  Of  the  great 
whole  of  humanity  we  see  but  little  at  a  time.  We  pause  some- 
times on  the  lights  only  of  the  picture,  sometimes  only  on  the 
shadows.  How  very  dark  those  shadows  seem  !  Yet  if  we 
could  embrace  in  our  view  the  whole  of  the  picture,  perhaps  the 
very  darkest  shadows  might  be  recognized  as  effective,  or  inevit- 
able, portions  of  a  grand  harmonious  whole.  (Pages  131, 132.1) 

Hence,  presently,  in  the  quietest  fashion,  and  with  a  dis- 
claimer of  anything  more  original  than  expressing  the 
thought  ripening  in  many  minds,  the  reader  is  introduced 
to  this  general  survey,  which  will  bear  long  pondering. 

I  have  no  paradox  to  startle  or  amuse  the  reader  with.  My 
statements  are  simply  those  which  must  grow  up  in  the  scientific 
age  in  which  we  live.  The  optimism  that  could  boldly  declare 
that  this  was  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds  does  not  belong  to 
an  age  which  recognizes  the  limits  of  its  knowledge.  He  who 
talks  of  the  best  possible  of  worlds  should  be  able  to  compare 
many  worlds  together.  What  we,  in  these  times,  are  saying  to 

1  These  pages  refer  to  the  second  edition  of  Gravenhurst,  printed 
in  one  volume  with  the  Memoir  and  Knowing  and  Feeling. 


«  GRA  VENHURST."  273 

ourselves  is  that  this  only  world  we  know  anything  about  is  es- 
sentially one,  —  one  great  scheme,  in  which  the  lower,  or  the 
simpler,  is  a  necessary  condition  of  the  higher  or  more  complex ; 
and  that  it  is  idle  to  quarrel  with  this  or  that  part  unless  you  can 
quarrel  with  the  whole,  or  unless  you  can  separate  that  portion 
which  is  the  object  of  your  criticism  from  the  great  laws  or  pow- 
ers that  constitute  the  whole.  You  take  up  some  one  part  of 
this  great  scheme  of  nature  and  of  man,  and  you,  a  sensitive 
human  being,  exclaim  against  it  as  pain  and  suffering,  and  de- 
nounce it  as  evil.  All  this  is  quite  inevitable  ;  but  what  you  ex- 
claim against  as  evil  is  often  the  very  excitement  of  our  highest 
energies,  and  is  always  found,  on  examination,  to  be  linked, 
either  as  cause  or  effect,  with  what  you  as  loudly  proclaim  to  be 
good.  You  suffer  and  you  resist,  and  strive  against  your  calam- 
ity, and  perhaps  this  strife  is  the  end  for  which  you  suffered ; 
but  take  away  both  the  suffering  and  the  strife,  and  you  simply 
destroy  the  whole  web  of  human  existence.  Tear  this  web  to 
pieces,  and  you  have  behind  it  —  nothing !  —  nothing  for  human 
knowledge. 

How  can  I,  or  any  one,  venture  to  assert  that  this  is  the  best 
of  all  possible  worlds  ?  There  may  be  innumerable  worlds,  and 
innumerable  modes  of  consciousness,  of  which  we  can  form  no 
conception  whatever.  What  we  can  safely  assert  is  this,  that 
our  world  of  nature  and  of  man  is  one  great  scheme,  and  that 
what  we  most  lament  in  human  life,  as  well  as  what  most  as- 
tonishes us  amongst  physical  phenomena,  is  a  consequence  of 
some  general  law  essential  to  the  whole.  And,  furthermore,  we 
can  assert  that,  if  not  the  happiest  of  all  possible  worlds,  happi- 
ness, and  not  misery,  is  the  great  end  and  result,  the  great  out- 
come of  this  multifarious  scheme.  This  subordination  of  evil 
to  good  may  be  proved,  not  only  by  enumerating  the  instances 
in  which  good  comes  out  of  evil,  and  comparing  them  with  the 
instances  in  which  evil  comes  out  of  good  —  a  process  which  I 
should  despair  of  completing  —  but  by  seizing  hold  of  certain 
great  laws  or  facts  of  human  life  which  show  that  provision  is 
made  for  happiness  of  a  quite  different  nature  than  can  be  said 
to  be  made  for  misery.  There  is  a  susceptibility  to  pleasure 
for  pleasure's  sake,  whereas  the  susceptibility  to  pain  has  always 
the  character  of  means  to  end,  or  is  the  consequence  of  some 


274  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

abnormal  condition.  There  is  a  universal  delight  in  energy  and 
activity  of  all  kinds,  so  that  there  is  joy  blended  with  existence 
itself;  for  is  riot  all  life  activity  of  some  description?  Thus 
pain,  when  it  acts  as  a  stimulant  to  activity,  is  lost  in  the  pleas- 
urable energy  it  excites.  Again,  the  sentiment  of  beauty  which 
diffuses  so  much  subtle  happiness  over  all  parts  of  life,  and 
which  gives  origin  to  the  fine  arts,  and  makes  the  world  we  live 
in  a  constant  source  of  pleasure  to  the  eye,  cannot  be  said  to  be 
balanced  or  neutralized  by  the  opposite  sentiment  of  ugliness. 
Hardly  a  plainer  indication  could  be  given  that  joy,  and  not 
grief,  is  the  purpose  of  our  world  (I  presume  that  we  may  speak 
of  the  world  as  having  a  purpose),  than  this  wide  diffusion  of 
the  sentiment  of  beauty.  General  considerations  of  this  kind 
are  sufficient  to  demonstrate  —  if  this  really  needed  demonstra- 
tion—  that  happiness  preponderates  over  misery.  (Pages  134- 
136.) 

The  keynote  of  the  discussion  is  not  a  passive  acqui- 
escence in  what  seems  to  us  evil,  but  the  recognition  that 
in  overcoming  the  evil  lies  our  good. 

The  more  we  reflect  on  the  great  whole  of  nature  and  human- 
ity, the  more  we  are  reconciled  —  not  to  evil  as  a  thing  to  be 
patiently  endured,  wherever  it  can  be  remedied  ;  but  to  a  condi- 
tion of  things  where  there  is  the  recognized  evil,  and  the  vigour 
to  combat  with  it.  This  contest  with  evil  is  our  very  progress, 
is  our  very  life  —  it  is  one  with  all  our  effort  and  energy.  .  .  . 
It  does  not  dismay  me  to  discover  that  our  energies  are  stimu- 
lated, our  pursuits  are  in  part  initiated,  our  enthusiasms  are  al- 
ways sustained,  by  what,  when  we  stand  face  to  face  against  it, 
we  must  call  evil.  Evil,  to  him  who  has  to  resist  or  to  endure, 
it  undoubtedly  is.  In  this  form  it  inevitably  presents  itself. 
But  who  does  not  see  that  human  life,  regarded  as  a  whole, 
would  be  incalculably  impoverished  if  the  energy,  the  emotions, 
the  aims,  which  originate  in  the  resistance  to  actual  or  probable 
evil  were  abstracted  from  it  ?  (Pages  138,  139.) 

To  give  clearly  and  condensedly  the  leading  thoughts 
of  the  book,  it  is  necessary  to  group  various  passages, 
without  following  the  sequence  of  the  original.  The  pri- 
mary function  of  pain  is  thus  tersely  given  :  — 


"  GRA  VENHURST."  275 

.  .  .  Pain  and  pleasure  are  the  stimulants  to  that  activity 
which  is  the  source  of  all  our  knowledge  and  all  our  arts,  and 
which  is  itself  the  most  universal  of  pleasures.  It  is  impossible 
for  us  to  conceive  of  life  being  developed  without  both  of  these 
stimulants.  Hunger,  thirst,  bodily  uneasiness,  are  constantly 
giving  movement  to  the  whole  animal  creation. 

Pain,  that  acts  as  a  stimulant  to  action,  blends  with  or  is  lost 
in  the  sense  of  effort,  or  the  vigorous  muscular  exertion  it  calls 
forth.  Very  acute  pain  paralyzes  or  subdues  ;  but  the  prick 
and  the  sting  that  stimulate  to  energetic  movement  are  forgot- 
ten in  the  energy  they  produce. 

In  many  of  our  motives  it  is  difficult  to  say  whether  pain  or 
pleasure  predominates.  Hunger  having  been  once  gratified, 
there  is  a  prospect  of  pleasure,  as  well  as  a  present  pain,  in  the 
desire  for  food.  Generally  there  is  in  desire  the  anticipation 
of  some  pleasure,  and  also  a  direct  pain  from  the  absence  of 
that  pleasure.  If  now  this  important  state  of  mind,  which  we 
call  desire,  be  thus  a  blending  of  pain  and  pleasure,  we  see  at 
once  how  indispensable  a  part  pain  performs  in  human  exist- 
ence. (Pages  162,  163.) 

The  transition  is  -obvious  to  the  development  of  mental 
and  moral  action :  — 

There  is  no  resistance  to  our  will  which  may  not,  in  some 
sense,  be  pronounced  to  be  evil,  and  yet  the  very  exercise  of 
power  implies  the  idea  of  resistance.  You  could  not  even  wield 
the  stick  within  your  hand  unless  it  presented  a  resistance  to 
your  hand.  All  moral  or  mental  power  is  exhibited  by  con- 
quering some  resistance  —  some  error,  or  some  misplaced  pas- 
sion. (Pages  167.) 

It  is  suffering  which  gives  occasion,  gives  birth,  we  may 
say,  to  social  virtue :  — 

If  a  personal  want  initiates  the  activity  of  the  individual,  it 
is  sympathy  with  each  other  which  lies  at  the  basis  of  human 
society ;  and  sympathy  is,  in  the  first  instance,  chiefly  called 
forth  by  pain,  or  dread  of  some  affliction.  We  sympathize  with 
each  other's  joys  no  less  than  with  each  other's  griefs.  But  even 
when  we  sympathize  strongly  with  each  other's  joys,  it  is  where 


276  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

there  is  some  sense  of  escape  from  threatened  or  probable  afflic- 
tion ;  and,  generally  speaking,  this  form  of  the  sentiment  is  of 
later  culture  or  development.  Society,  in  its  early  stages,  owes 
more  to  the  sympathy  which  is  calle.d  forth  by  pain,  by  wounds, 
by  death.  That  sympathy  which  enlists  the  passions  of  twenty 
men  in  the  suffering  and  calamity  of  one  is  the  rude  initiator  of 
criminal  justice  and  moral  reprobation.  Could  I  point  to  any 
great  fact  which  shows  more  distinctly  how  pain  and  pleasure 
lie  together  at  the  very  roots  of  human  existence  ?  They,  in- 
deed, are  twisted  together  in  every  fibre,  in  every  leaf,  in  every 
blossom  and  fruit  of  the  great  tree  of  life.  (Page  163.) 
Let  us  confront,  then,  the  question  of  moral  evil :  — 
From  pain  we  are  easily  led  to  the  dread  of  pain,  to  the  re- 
sentment that  follows  upon  pain,  to  anger,  hatred,  fear,  and  all 
the  list  of  depressing  and  inflammatory  passions  —  dire  inmates 
to  the  human  breast  which  admits  them  too  readily,  or  retains 
them  too  long.  Yet  what  passion  is  there  which  in  its  due  de- 
gree and  place  is  not  serviceable  to  happiness,  or  is  not  a  happi- 
ness itself  ?  What  we  call  bad  passions  owe  their  badness  to  a 
defective  state  of  the  intelligence,  as  when  emulation  becomes 
envy  in  narrow  minds,  or  love  becomes  jealousy.  What  funda- 
mental passion  is  there  of  the  human  mind  that  you  would  erad- 
icate ?  Not  revenge.  You  know  that  this  is  needful  to  self- 
preservation  ;  you  know  that  when  it  is  felt  sympathetically,  it 
becomes  a  noble  indignation,  summoning  defenders  round  the 
weak  against  the  strong.  But  the  passion,  you  urge,  that 
prompted  the  injury  which  has  to  be  revenged  —  this  might  be 
eradicated,  and  then  all  would  be  peace.  What  is  that  assail- 
ant ?  What  the  passion  that  commences  the  strife,  and  gives 
the  first  blow  ?  It  may  be  any  passion  that  has  not  learned  its 
limits,  and  it  has  to  learn  its  limits  by  this  very  retaliation  it 
provokes.  It  may  be  cupidity,  and  cupidity  in  itself  is  but  the 
desire  for  some  good.  Or  it  may  be  the  love  of  power,  the  desire 
of  governing  others,  and  making  them  subject  to  our  will.  And 
you  will  pause  long  before  you  eradicate  this  love  of  power. 
Here  also  there  is  a  passion  which  has  to  learn  its  limits  from 
the  resistance  it  meets,  with.  (Pages  165,  166.) 

To  this  question  of  moral  evil  we  will  return  later.   But 


"GRAVENHURST." 


977 


now,  on  the  broader  topic  of  the  function  of  all  evil,  there 
comes  the  inquiry  whether  there  is  not  obviously  a  great 
excess  of  suffering  beyond  any  useful  purpose. 

"  There  is  too  much  evil.  Passions  are  too  violent,  wants  are 
too  agonizing,  pains  and  distresses  are  too  numerous,  too  persist- 
ent, too  intense." 

The  complaint  is  natural.  Who  of  us  has  not  made  it  in  the 
day  of  his  sorrow  or  his  indignation  ?  But  consider  this,  that  it 
lies  in  the  very  nature  of  pain  and  suffering  that  we  do,  and 
must,  complain  of  it.  Whatever  the  degree  in  which  it  pre- 
sents itself,  it  must  always  seem  too  much.  It  is  always,  from 
the  nature  of  the  case,  the  element  we  wish  away  —  that  stands 
out  against  us  as  repugnant  and  superfluous. 

No  animal,  and  certainly  not  man  himself,  could  be  trusted 
with  the  modification  or  reconstruction  of  his  own  life.  He 
would  at  once  and  forever  reject  what  is  repugnant,  and  in  so 
doing  unnerve  his  whole  existence.  Every  animal  that  has  to 
seek  its  food  would  bargain  for  a  regular  supply,  and  near  at 
hand ;  yet  with  those  who  have  great  powers  of  locomotion  the 
irregularity  and  uncertainty  of  supply  is  connected  with  the 
exercise  of  their  peculiar  faculties.  What  would  become  of  all 
the  birds  of  the  air  —  where  the  glory  of  their  outstretched  and 
untiring  pinions  —  if  it  were  not  for  that  seeming  precariousness 
of  supply,  which  doubtless  they  would  themselves  complain  of, 
and  which  even  benevolent  men  have  contemplated  with  some 
dismay  and  distress  ?  We  men,  for  our  own  parts,  are  in  the 
habit  of  saying  that  it  is  well  for  us  that  we  cannot  always  pre- 
dict the  future  —  that  there  should  be  abundant  play  for  hope, 
and  curiosity,  and  surprise.  Nevertheless  this  uncertainty  is  a 
state  which  each  one  for  himself  would  constantly  remove  if 
he  could.  He  must  wish  to  read  the  future  while  he  is  still  in 
the  anxious  present. 

That  there  is  a  general  feeling  of  too  much  evil  is  not,  there- 
fore, a  proof  that  this  element  is  in  excess,  viewed  as  part  of  the 
whole ;  because,  from  its  nature,  it  is  always  that  which  is  felt 
to  be  too  much. 

Nevertheless  this  question  of  degree  is  one  which  may  legiti- 
mately be  raised,  if  only  one  could  grapple  with  it.  A  calm  and 


278  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

all-seeing  spectator  of  human  affairs  might  discuss  such  a  ques- 
tion. We  stand  ourselves  in  this  predicament :  If  our  knowl- 
edge is  not  sufficient  to  enable  us  to  pronounce  that  it  is  not  in 
excess  (an  opinion  to  which,  from  the  general  harmony  of  na- 
ture, one  may  be  disposed  to  lean),  it  is  certainly  not  sufficient 
to  entitle  us  to  assert  that  it  is  in  excess. 

How  can  man,  the  sufferer,  trust  himself  to  form  any  decision 
upon  the  degree  in  which  pain  and  pleasure  should  be  diffused 
over  the  whole  world  ?  How  can  he  know  how  that  passions  less 
violent,  wants  less  painful,  distresses  less  extensive,  would  have 
answered  the  purposes  for  which  passion,  want,  and  distress 
have  been  called  in  ?  He  knows  this,  that  he  should  always 
give  his  judgment  in  favour  of  the  something  less. 

I  ask  no  man  to  be  contented  with  the  amount  of  evil  existing 
at  any  time,  in  any  age  or  country.  It  is  the  nature  of  evil  to 
prompt  opposition  to  it.  The  more  intelligence  there  is  in  man, 
the  more  vigorous  and  effectual  the  opposition  it  will  prompt. 
The  greatest  of  all  calamities  is  the  contentment  that  sits  down 
at  peace  with  a  remediable  evil. 

But  how  can  I  measure  the  degree  of  that  stimulant  nec- 
essary to  call  forth  those  energies  by  which  we  progress? 
(Pages  168-170.) 

And  now  comes  that  great  explaining  fact,  which  man's 
latest  study  of  the  world  in  its  reality  has  elicited,  —  the 
fact  of  a  visible  upward  progress  of  terrestrial  humanity. 

.  .  .  Strange,  indeed,  would  it  be,  if  all  nature  manifested  an 
admirable  arrangement  of  parts,  and  an  evident  principle  of 
growth,  till  we  arrived  at  the  history  of  that  conscious  and  rea- 
soning being  whose  presence  alone  gives  meaning  and  purpose 
to  all  the  rest  of  nature.  The  unconscious  world  has  its  end, 
or  its  complement,  in  that  conscious  being  in  whom  it  excites 
pleasure,  perception,  beauty,  truth.  Starting  from  his  simplest 
appetites  and  passions,  all  of  which  have  their  allotted  and  ap- 
parently indispensable  office  in  his  further  development,  we  see 
him  rise  into  higher  emotions,  into  higher  and  higher  truths. 
Perhaps  from  the  elevated  station  he  finally  reaches,  he  looks 
down  with  some  displeasure  and  contempt  upon  the  lower  ele- 


"  GRA  VEN  HURST."  279 

ments  of  his  own  nature,  —  unwisely,  if  he  does  not  recognize, 
at  the  same  time,  the  enormous  debt  he  owes  them  —  does  not 
recognize  in  those  lower  elements  the  very  basis  of  that  intellect- 
ual structure  he  has  reared.  The  higher  may  predominate  over 
the  lower  —  may  even,  when  once  developed,  obtain  an  inde- 
pendent footing ;  and  as  we  shall  often  have  occasion  to  show,  it 
never  could  have  been,  in  the  first  place,  developed  without  aid 
of  the  lower.  The  whole  is  one.  (Page  140.) 

Very  rich  is  the  book  in  illustrations  of  this  law  of 
progress,  and  in  instances  of  service  wrought  by  phases 
of  existence  which  when  surmounted  looked  wholly  evil 
in  the  retrospect,  while  yet  the  higher  plane  was  only 
reached  by  their  means.  One  or  two  only  of  these  illus- 
trations we  reproduce. 

Progress  is  brought  about  by  the  energy  of  man,  which  energy 
is  also  his  highest  felicity.  The  age  which  in  any  way  has 
fought  and  conquered  for  its  successor  would  perhaps  be  con- 
sidered the  more  fortunate  of  the  two,  if  its  successor  had  not 
also  its  own  strife  —  strife  at  least  to  retain  what  had  been  thus 
acquired  for  it.  ...  Slavery,  war,  despotism,  religious  persecu- 
tion, are  evils  which  we  have  already  partly  outlived.  Evils  we 
from  our  position  rightly  pronounce  them  to  be,  yet  each  of  them 
had  its  adaptation  to  the  epoch  in  which  it  was  found  to  exist, 
and  each  had  a  function  to  perform  preparatory  to  a  subsequent 
and  happier  era.  Where  they  still  exist,  they  still  have  the  like 
adaptation. 

One  illustration  must  here  suffice.  War  is  already,  and  has 
long  been,  proclaimed  to  be  an  evil  of  the  first  magnitude,  and 
forward-looking  men  anticipate  a  time  when  the  disputes  of 
nations  will  be  decided  by  a  society  of  nations,  represented  in 
some  council  or  congress.  Meanwhile  we  are,  as  a  people,  still 
in  that  condition  when  we  enjoy  the  fierce  delights  of  war. 
Nay,  we  read  lectures  to  each  other  on  the  moral  benefits  aris- 
ing out  of  the  bold  profession  of  arms.  And,  at  all  events,  there 
is  a  general  persuasion  that  this  great  framer  of  states,  this 
founder  of  nationalities,  has  not  yet  done  its  work.  Wars  of 
conquest  and  of  self-defence  have  hitherto  assisted  at  the  forma- 


280  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

tion  of  every  well-knit  community.  The  opposition  from  with- 
out has  made  the  elements  cohere  within.  (Pages  184,  185.) 

There  is  a  toleration  for  the  persecutor  we  have  yet  to  learn. 
I  was  lately  reading  the  "  History  of  Philip  II."  and  the  grand 
revolt  of  the  Netherlands.  What  indignation  I  felt  against  the 
Spanish  tyrant !  And  indeed  we  Protestants  must  hate  this 
despot.  And  yet,  I  asked  myself,  is  it  reasonable  to  lay  upon 
one  man,  as  his  crime,  the  fanaticism  of  a  whole  people  and  the 
tradition  of  ages  ?  A  great  idea  prevailed,  it  predominated 
entirely  in  Spain,  it  had  prevailed  generally  over  European 
society.  It  was  the  idea  of  a  universal  church,  out  of  which 
salvation  for  the  souls  of  men  was  impossible.  Kings  as  well 
as  priests,  and  mobs  as  well  as  kings,  were  possessed  with  this 
idea.  Scholars,  soldiers,  magistrates,  all  held  themselves  charged 
to  maintain  it,  to  write,  to  fight,  and  adjudicate  for  its  support. 
The  error  of  all  is  the  reproach  of  none.  This  Philip  II.  is  pre- 
eminently the  great  and  pious  king  of  pious  Catholics.  Pos- 
sessed of  highest  power,  on  him  devolves  the  severest  task.  The 
sword  is  in  his  hand,  and  he  must  strike.  This  morose  and 
superstitious  king  is,  before  all  others,  the  slave  to  our  great 
idea. 

But  in  one  part  of  his  dominions  this  great  idea  is  disputed 
and  dethroned.  I  see  the  enlightened  and  wealthy  cities  of 
Holland  suffering  every  calamity  that  war  and  famine  can  in- 
flict, rather  than  deny  the  new  truth  that  has  sprung  up  in  them. 
They  will  not  surrender  their  convictions.  Rather  let  the  sea 
take  back  their  land,  rather  let  the  fires  of  martyrdom  consume 
their  bodies.  Return  stroke  for  stroke,  you  brave  Dutchmen ! 
Bear  all,  inflict  all,  rather  than  surrender!  Would  that  you 
could  bind  this  monarch  and  fling  him  over  your  dikes,  and  be 
free  to  worship  how  you  will ! 

But  now,  when  the  fight  is  over,  and  the  combatants  numbered 
with  the  dead,  on  whom  are  we  to  pass  judgment  ?  Not  on  the 
zealot  king,  not  on  the  zealot  citizen.  They  are  gone  from  be- 
fore our  judgment-seat,  with  all  their  antagonistic  energies  and 
repugnant  duties.  They  have  left  only  for  our  contemplation  a 
contest  between  two  great  ideas. 

All  that  remains  for  us  is  to  congratulate  ourselves  on  the 
new  views  that  have  become  prevalent  as  to  the  duty  of  the  state 


«  GRA  YEN  HURST."  281 

in  the  matter  of  religion.  But  here  we  perceive  our  age  may 
justly  congratulate  itself,  and  yet  not  condemn  or  affect  to  pity 
its  predecessor.  An  enlightened  people,  a  people  whose  minds 
are  generally  active,  will  put  forth  a  variety  of  beliefs ;  and  this 
very  activity  of  mind  becomes  a  substitute  for  that  state  author- 
ity which  it  resists.  Amongst  such  people  the  action  of  the  state 
is  necessarily  and  wisely  limited.  Did  such  mental  activity  be- 
come still  more  general,  the  action  of  the  state  might  be  alto- 
gether withdrawn.  All  this  is  subject  for  sincere  congratulation. 
But  if  I  am  to  look  back  candidly  into  some  past  era,  I  must 
see  there  also  a  certain  harmony  in  the  condition  of  things  —  a 
certain  social  organization  which  is  not  unworthy  of  admiration. 
An  ignorant  unreasoning  people  are  bound  together,  and  have 
their  minds  guided  and  enriched  by  some  state-protected  faith, 
which,  be  its  composition  what  it  may,  has  in  it  the  highest 
practical  wisdom  that  the  thinking  few  of  mankind  have  hitherto 
attained.  This,  also,  is  not  unworthy  of  an  approving  recogni- 
tion. (Pages  186-188.) 

Nor,  in  this  view,  is  man  in  his  earlier  and  lower  phase 
a  mere  sufferer  and  a  stepping-stone  to  his  happier  suc- 
cessor. In  each  experience  there  is  a  satisfaction  of  its 
own. 

.  .  .  The  savage  is  a  very  hideous  spectacle  —  to  you.  But  he 
—  as  complete  in  himself  as  you  or  I  —  leads  his  own  life  con- 
tentedly. Nay,  if  contentment  with  himself  were  the  sole  test 
of  happiness  —  which  it  is  not  —  it  is  only  one  amongst  many 
tests  —  we  would  hold  the  savage  happier  than  ourselves.  He 
is  the  most  conceited  of  his  species.  It  is,  indeed,  a  universal 
kindness  of  Nature  that  she  compensates  ignorance  by  a  most 
triumphant  conceit.  (Page  206.) 

Take,  if  you  prefer  it,  an  illustration  from  the  arts  of  peace. 
Follow  the  miner  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth  —  watch  the  arti- 
san at  his  loom,  packed  close  in  the  dark  alleys  of  a  town  ;  the 
circumstances  are  to  us  distressing  enough.  But  the  man  in 
whom  those  circumstances  have  developed  the  fitting  and  appro- 
priate activity  is  not  an  unhappy  creature.  Before  you  pro- 
nounce a  man  miserable,  be  sure  you  have  the  real  being  before 


282  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

you  —  be  sure  that  you  are  not  pronouncing  on  some  imaginary 
figure,  made  up  half  of  him  and  half  of  yourself  —  his  circum- 
stances and  your  temper  and  habits.  (Page  154.  ) 

This  view  is  carried  in  one  instance  to  what  must  seem 
to  most  readers  an  audacious  paradox.  It  is  the  old  In- 
dian general  who  utters  it. 

"  This  marvellous  energy,"  he  continued,  "  seen  in  all  animal 
life,  but  most  conspicuously  in  man,  calls  forth  my  ceaseless  ad- 
miration, and  affords  often  a  complete  answer  to  men  wailing 
over  the  destiny  of  others.  So  long  as  I  see  the  man  bear  up 
and  contend  against  the  hostile  circumstance,  so  long  do  I  know 
that  he  is  not  forsaken  by  the  genius  of  happiness.  I  have  wit- 
nessed the  horrors  of  war ;  I  have  shared  in  the  forced  march ; 
I  have  traversed  the  field  of  battle  the  day  after  ;  but  still  I  do 
not  scruple  to  say  that,  merely  weighing  out  its  pleasures  and  its 
pains,  the  excitements  which  attend  on  war  itself  add  far  more 
to  the  sum  of  human  happiness  than  its  worst  calamities  to  the 
sum  of  human  misery.  My  niece  —  who  sits  there  in  the  corner 
so  critically  attentive  to  me  —  looks  dissent.  But  I  do  not  ad- 
vocate war,  my  dear  Ada,  or  desire  its  continuance.  The  ener- 
gies of  man  may  find  a  better  direction ;  but  it  is  still  well  to 
see  that,  whatever  direction  they  take,  they  can  scarcely  fail  to 
add  to  the  sum  of  happiness.  So  much  does  our  happiness  lie 
in  this  energy  itself."  (Pages  153,  154.) 

But  a  less  extreme  illustration  will  win  a  more  general 
assent. 

"  You  are  standing,"  General  Mansfield  will  say,  "  in  your 
own  pleasant  drawing-room,  well  defended  from  the  weather, 
and  you  listen  to  the  storm  raging  without.  The  rain  dashes 
violently  against  that  film  of  glass  which  yet  so  securely  protects 
you  from  its  violence.  Your  thoughts  fly  to  the  sea,  and  you 
picture  to  yourself  the  misery  of  some  hapless  voyager,  who, 
drenched  to  the  skin,  is  holding  on  by  the  rigging  to  save  him- 
self from  being  carried  overboard  by  the  rage  of  the  tempest. 
You,  warm  and  indolent,  project  yourself  in  imagination  into 
such  a  scene.  But  the  man  who  is  really  there  is  no  warm 
and  indolent  creature  ;  he  has  all  the  energy  the  situation  itself 


"  GKA  VENHURST."  283 

has  called  forth.  You  congratulate  yourself  in  your  easy-chair, 
your  dry  and  comfortable  room :  congratulate  yourself  by  all 
means,  and  enjoy  what  the  quiet  hour  brings  you.  But  prob- 
ably you  yourself,  at  some  other  time,  have  been  in  the  very 
position  that  seems  so  dreadful  now.  You  have  clung  with  all 
your  might  to  the  shrouds  while  the  waves  washed  over  you, 
while  the  winds  seemed  resolved  to  tear  you  from  your  hold, 
and  sweep  you  away  into  the  ocean.  But  you  have  clung,  you 
strove  gallantly,  you  drew  breath  when  the  waves  had  passed  over 
you,  and  prepared,  with  clenched  hands,  for  the  next  encounter. 
You  were  there  at  your  post,  you  had  no  thought  of  surrender, 
you  were  all  energy ;  the  danger  was  swallowed  up  in  the  efforts 
you  were  making.  Well,  call  up  that  hour  when,  drenched  and 
buffeted  by  water  and  by  wind,  you  offered  stout  resistance  to 
the  elements  in  every  strong  fibre  of  your  body  —  call  it  up 
fairly,  fully,  and  place  it  beside  this  hour  of  fireside  enjoyment 
and  security,  and  tell  me  which  of  the  two  was  the  higher  life  ? 
Which  of  the  two  are  you  most  proud  to  have  experienced  ?  If 
we  wish  to  form  a  correct  estimate  of  human  existence,  we  must 
not  dwell  upon  the  loud  bluster  of  the  storm,  and  forget  the 
thrill  of  power  that  responds  to  it  in  the  hidden  noiseless  nerve 
of  the  living  man."  (Pages  152,  153.) 

But  it  is  on  the  most  familiar  ground  that  our  author 
walks  with  firmest  foot,  in  his  pilgrimage  of  hope  and 
cheer.  Take  this  group  of  scenes,  both  inanimate  and 
human,  from  the  country  village  "  Gravenhurst,"  whence 
the  book  derives  its  name. 

Commonplace  !  Look  up  !  What  is  that  apparition  of  daz- 
zling brightness  rising  softly  upon  the  blue  sky  from  behind 
those  tall  and  massive  elms  ?  If  you  saw  it  for  the  first  time  in 
your  life  you  would  say  it  must  be  some  celestial  visitant.  Is  it 
light  itself  from  heaven  taking  shape,  and  just  softened  and  sub- 
dued to  the  endurance  of  a  mortal  vision  ?  It  is  nothing  but  a 
cloud  I  —  mere  vapour  that  the  unseen  wind  moves  and  moulds, 
and  that  the  sun  shines  on  for  a  little  time.  And  now  it  has 
risen  above  the  massive  and  lofty  tree,  and  throws  light  upwards 
to  the  sky,  and  throws  its  pleasant  shadow  down  upon  the  earth 


284  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

—  pleasant  shadow  that  paces  along  the  meadows,  leaving  be- 
hind a  greater  brilliancy  on  tree,  and  grass,  and  hedge,  and 
flower,  than  what,  for  a  moment,   it  had  eclipsed.     It  is -all 
commonplace.      Light,   and    shadow,   and   the  river,   and    the 
meadow  with  its  clover  blossoms,  and  childish  buttercups.    Very 
childish  all.     Match  it !  match  them  !  —  match  these  trees  in 
their  meadows,  ye  restless  prophets  with  your  palaces  of  crystal 
and  walls  of  sapphire,  and  pavements  of  jasper !  .  .  .  All  the 
apocalyptic  visions  you  have  ever  read  cannot  rival  a  meadow  in 
springtime.     That  simple  field,  with  its  buttercups  and  clover 
blossoms,  outshines  the  imagination  of  all  the  poet-prophets  that 
have  ever  lived.     Thank  God,  all  you  who  have  a  spark  of  ra- 
tional piety  in  your  hearts,  for   the  glorious  commonplace  of 
earth  and  sky,  —  for  this  cloud-embosomed  planet  in  which  you 
pass  your  lives.     (Pages  142,  143.) 

.  .  .  An  interesting  race,  these  human  beings.  As  I  pass  the 
meadow,  I  lean  upon  the  gate  that  opens  into  it ;  I  see  a  little 
child,  almost  an  infant,  toddling  alone  in  the  high  grass.  The 
tall  buttercups  have  outgrown  the  child ;  they  and  the  ox-eyed 
daisies  shut  out  from  its  view  that  neighbouring  cottage  which  is 
its  home ;  the  child  has  lost  its  way  amidst  the  flowers  it  had 
come  to  gather,  knows  not  where  to  turn  in  this  jungle  of  soft 
grass.  I  hear  a  plaintive  cry  of  distress.  Another  child,  some 
two  years  older,  as  I  guess,  runs  to  its  aid,  caresses,  calms  it ; 
leads  it  back  to  the  cottage  home  of  both.  How  prettily  it  pro- 
tects !  —  how  proudly  !  —  seeing  that  this  older  one  can  look 
above  the  grass.  You  perceive  that  the  little  fond,  and  sympa- 
thetic, and  imitative  creature  has  learnt  that  tender  care  from 
their  common  mother  ;  you  note  with  a  smile  the  already  com- 
plex sentiment  (sense  of  power  mingled  with  love)  revealed  in 
that  protection  ;  you  observe  how  soon  the  thread  of  life,  and 
even  where  it  is  silken-soft,  is  spun  of  pain  and  pleasure  ;  you 
know,  moreover,  that  beneath  the  thatch  of  that  cottage,  to  which 
these  children  hand-in-hand  are  walking,  there  beats  some  true 
and  tender  mother-heart,  the  source  of  this  love  to  one  another 

—  some  tender  heart  whose  very  anxieties  you  would  hardly 
dare  to  diminish.     (Pages  143,  144.) 

...  I  need  not  say,  therefore,  that  our  Gravenhurst  has  its 
share  of  miseries,  —  has  its  wants,  its  sorrows,  its  crimes  ;  per- 


«  GRA  YEN  HURST.'1  285 

haps  under  some  roof,  unknown  to  any  of  us,  a  terrible  guilt  or 
anguish  may  lie  hid.  But  that  which  meets  the  eye  everywhere, 
or  most  conspicuously,  is  labour,  work  of  some  kind,  performed 
cheerfully,  socially,  habitually.  There  is  a  stolid  content  in  the 
countenance  of  most  men  you  meet ;  a  more  talkative  and  bus- 
tling activity  distinguishes  the  women.  We,  in  common  with  all 
England  and  the  greater  part  of  Europe,  have  reached  that 
stage  of  civilization  and  of  culture  in  which  the  necessary  labours 
of  life  are  undertaken  with  cheerful  foresight,  and  where  in- 
dustry is  a  steadfast  voluntary  habit.  There  is  no  savage  im- 
pulse of  sheer  hunger,  no  savage  sloth  when  the  hunger  is  satis- 
fied ;  and  we  have  long  passed  that  epoch  when  industry  was 
sustained  by  the  goad  of  the  slave-master.  We  have  learned 
that  health  and  pleasure  lie  hid  in  labour.  We  know  that  the 
toil  which  ministers  to  life  is  itself  the  best  part  of  life.  (Page 
145.) 

Of  course  we  make  our  outcries  against  the  miseries  of  life  ; 
and  there  is  real  evil  and  indisputable  sorrow  amongst  us.  But 
we  strike  down  the  evil  where  we  can,  and  we  soothe  the  sorrow 
where  we  can.  And  then  this  energy  with  which  we  strike,  and 
this  tenderness  with  which  we  soothe  —  I  think  we  should  not, 
after  due  deliberation,  forfeit  these  for  an  immunity  from  pain 
and  sorrow.  Some  evils,  you  will  say,  do  not  prompt  action  — 
rouse  no  energy  —  are  simply  to  be  endured.  Well,  this  endur- 
ance conquers  them,  wrings  a  strength  and  pride  out  of  them. 
They  prompt  this  energy  of  fortitude.  I  go  back  to  the  meadow 
where  I  saw  the  children  amongst  the  flowers.  Childhood  itself 
shall  give  me  my  illustration.  Some  days  afterwards  I  encoun- 
tered the  eldest  one  alone ;  she  did  not  perceive  me ;  I  could 
watch  her  unobserved.  There  was  a  very  luxuriant  crop  of 
nettles  growing  beside  the  hedge.  I  saw  her  put  her  little  ten- 
der hand,  slowly  and  deliberately,  to  the  leaf  of  the  stinging 
nettle.  She  wanted  to  try  if  she  could  bear  the  pain.  The 
grave  little  Spartan !  I  asked  her  if  she  knew  that  the  nettle 
stung.  "  Oh,  yes !  she  knew  it ;  "  but  added,  blushing,  partly 
with  pain  and  partly  at  being  observed,  "  Mother  says  that  un- 
less we  can  bear  pain  we  shall  be  cowards  and  useless  people.  I 
wanted  to  try  —  it  is  not  so  very  bad."  Ah,  little  Annie  Fos- 
ter !  there  was  no  need  to  go  in  search  for  the  nettle.  But  you 


286  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

bore  the  trial  well,  and  greater  trials,  I  doubt  not,  you  will 
bravely  bear.  Again  I  draw  the  inference  that  there  was  a 
brave  as  well  as  tender  mother  bestirring  herself  under  the 
thatch  of  that  cottage.  (Pages  146,  147.) 

How  great  become  the  most  trivial  cares  of  existence  —  such 
as  food  and  clothing  —  when  we  think  for  all !  when  some  great 
principle  of  patriotism  or  duty  shines  over  them.  The  simplest 
pleasure  —  when  I  am  concerned  that  another  shall  enjoy  it — 
how  exalted  it  has  become ! 

"  The  small,  familiar,  transitory  joy, 
Seen  in  the  light  of  an  eternal  truth  — 
The  mote  — the  beam!" 

What  transmutations  take  place  in  this  wondrous  life  of  ours ! 
The  inexorable  need  of  the  hunger-driven  animal  —  lo !  it  is  a 
component  part  of  the  sweetest  of  our  Christian  charities.  (Page 
206.) 

The  same  law  which  rules  in  these  sweet  simple  scenes 
holds  sway  in  the  highest  exercises  of  the  philosophic 
mind. 

Ada.  How  could  the  merely  pleasurable  awake  us  into  in- 
tense thought?  Or  how  could  intense  and  anxious  thought 
rank  amongst  the  merely  pleasurable  ?  As  well  hope  to  drive 
the  night  out  of  the  twenty-four  hours,  as  drive  it  out  of  the  in- 
most recesses  of  our  thought. 

Sandford.  One  might  say  that  it  is  this  infinite  night,  which 
seems  to  surround  our  little  globe,  that  throws  an  undying  inter- 
est on  its  petty  transactions  and  transitory  passions. 

Ada.  Speaking  of  my  own  experience,  thought  has  been  less 
happy  as  my  horizon  of  thought  has  extended.  I  suffered  from 
many  a  nightmare  when  I  was  a  child,  but  I  have  suffered  more 
in  later  times  when  the  dream  was  fading  away  —  not  always 
into  the  light  of  the  morning. 

Sandford.  Yet  I  am  sure  that  you  would  not  contract  your 
horizon.  We  want  some  word  to  express  that  happiness  which 
is  not  pleasure. 

Ada.  Music  expresses  it  to  me ;  I  know  no  other  language 
that  does.  No !  I  would  not  relinquish  on  any  account  what 


«  GRA  VENHURST."  287 

little  has  been  granted  me  of  intellectual  vision.  Come  blind- 
ness of  the  eye  rather !  I  do  not  envy  the  placidity  of  men 
and  women  of  manifestly  contracted  understandings.  I  might 
as  well  envy  (as  I  have  heard  some  foolish  people  say  they  did) 
the  still  more  placid  lives  of  our  domestic  animals.  I  delight  to 
contemplate  —  I  have  no  wish  to  imitate  —  the  life  of  any  sort 
of  tabby.  My  cat  enjoys  her  existence  in  common  with  me  up 
to  a  certain  point.  When  in  the  winter  evening  I  draw  the 
easy-chair  towards  the  fire,  she  couches  before  me  on  the  rug. 
We  both  enjoy  the  light,  the  warmth,  the  softness,  the  repose, 
and  for  a  moment  I  distinctly  congratulate  myself  on  this  per- 
fect cat-like  felicity.  But  this  pleasant  state  of  things  must  be, 
with  me,  the  condition  only  for  some  higher  enjoyment.  I 
must  converse  with  a  friend,  I  must  read  books,  I  must  think 
my  thoughts,  I  must  lose  myself  in  their  labyrinth.  Puss,  on 
the  rug,  stops  where  I  begin  —  feels  all  the  peace,  the  comfort, 
and  the  warmth,  and  stops  there  perfectly  content.  I  see  her 
close  her  eyes  and  open  them  again,  quite  satisfied  that  every- 
thing about  her  is  as  stationary  as  herself.  Well,  I  will  not  envy 
puss.  I  will  take,  by  sympathy,  her  little  contented  life  into 
my  own,  and  so  enrich  my  being  with  one  more  kindly  senti- 
ment. This  is  all  that  I  will  do,  whether  the  puss  lies  at  my 
feet,  in  her  own  fur,  upon  the  rug,  or  whether  she  sits,  in  mob- 
cap  or  pretty  ringlets,  upon  the  chair  before  me.  (Pages  224, 
225.) 

But  let  us  now  revert  to  that  stubborn  and  perplexing 
theme,  that  which  we  call  moral  evil,  the  conscious  and 
wilful  wrong-doing  of  man.  At  this  point  it  becomes  im- 
possible to  do  justice  to  our  author  by  fragmentary  cita- 
tions ;  his  view  is  so  different  from  the  treatment  long 
familiar  in  theology,  that  partial  quotation  can  convey  it 
but  imperfectly,  and  the  reader  must  be  referred  to  the 
book  itself.  To  the  statement  already  cited,  this  may 
here  be  added  :  — 

That  which,  amongst  animals  or  idiots,  is  mere  hurt  and  in- 
jury, becomes  moral  evil,  becomes  crime  or  sin,  to  intelligent 
man  occupied  with  the  interests  of  society  or  the  presumed  judg- 


288  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

merits  of  God.  Evil,  therefore,  becomes  moral  evil  —  how  ?  by 
the  development  of  human  reason.  And  a  pleasure-giving  act 
becomes  moral  goodness  by  the  same  development  of  intelli- 
gence. We  have  not  here  to  speak  of  any  absolutely  new  pas- 
sion ;  what  has  converted  evil  into  moral  evil  is  the  elevation  of 
other  parts  of  bur  nature.  The  intentional  acts  of  men  become 
moral  evil  because  they  are  performed  or  contemplated  by 
beings  capable  of  moral  judgments.  Whether  you  pronounce 
these  judgments  to  be  the  result  of  a  special  moral  faculty,  or 
describe  them  as  the  reason  judging  for  the  welfare  of  the 
whole  community,  it  is  still  sufficiently  plain  that  evil  becomes 
moral  evil  by  the  addition  of  these  judgments.  It  is  the  result 
of  this  higher  or  peculiar  development  of  the  human  mind  that 
to  injure  another,  under  certain  circumstances,  becomes  moral 
evil.  We  see  by  this  sjmple  statement  the  utter  impossibility  of 
ascribing  simple  pain  or  evil  to  the  Creator  of  the  world,  and 
moral  evil  to  some  other  and  diabolic  agent.  The  evil  being 
there,  the  conversion  of  it  into  moral  evil  marked  our  advance- 
ment. (Page  174.) 

What,  in  the  nature  of  things,  is  founded  on  experience,  must 
be  preceded  by  the  requisite  experience.  If  a  race  of  thinking 
beings  is  to  act  from  a  rule  of  reason  or  intelligence  —  that  is, 
from  generalized  experience  —  there  must  have  been  a  process 
of  thought  or  experiment  carried  on,  and  carried  on  through 
several  generations.  Man  injures  himself  and  his  fellow-man 
by  his  ignorance  and  passion.  From  many  ill  results  of  these 
he  learns  temperance,  he  learns  equity.  These  virtues  are, 
from  their  very  nature,  to  be  learnt  from  the  experience  of  good 
and  evil,  and  will  be  learnt  gradually.  Turn  the  subject  how 
you  will,  moral  good  could  not  exist  unless  its  counterpart  of 
moral  evil  also  existed,  or  had  existed.  This  truth  is  self-evi- 
dent, and  yet  it  seems  to  be  overlooked  by  those  who  repeatedly 
perplex  themselves  by  asking,  How  could  God  be  the  author  of 
moral  evil  ?  The  great  fact  that  ought  to  arrest  their  attention 
is  that  God  has  been  the  author  of  a  moral  being.  He  has  so 
arranged  the  circumstances  of  life,  and  the  powers  and  propen- 
sities of  man,  that  the  reason  or  judgment  cultivated  in  this 
scene  of  pain  and  pleasure  produces  for  us  the  sentiments  of 
merit  and  duty.  (Page  176.) 


"  GRA  VENHURST."  289 

With  the  idea  of  moral  evil  is  closely  connected  the 
question  of  the  punishments  inflicted  by  society,  and  the 
punishments  attributed  to  God.  Here  our  author  is  at 
his  best.  And  here  again  we  must  refer  the  reader  to 
"  Gravenhurst "  itself,  from  which  we  borrow  little  more 
than  a  fragment. 

God,  then,  is  the  author  of  moral  evil  —  in  what  way  ?  By 
a  development  of  the  reason  of  man  He  has  enabled  him  to  com. 
pare  conduct  with  conduct,  result  with  result  —  enabled  him  to 
approve  and  condemn. 

All  this  is  very  clear.  But  why,  then,  it  is  asked,  does  God 
punish  moral  evil,  if  He  created  it  ? 

There  are  two  theories  abroad  on  the  nature  of  divine  punish- 
ments. 

If  the  divine  punishments  (whether  judicial,  or  consisting  of 
penalties  brought  out  by  the  operation  of  the  laws  already  estab- 
lished) have  for  their  end  the  guidance  of  men,  and  of  societies 
of  men,  here  or  hereafter,  then  these  divine  punishments  are  but 
means  to  carry  on  the  progressive  development  of  the  human 
species.  The  whole  scheme  is  still  in  harmony  in  all  its  parts. 
There  is  no  difficulty  in  God's  both  creating  and  punishing  moral 
evil.  He  creates  it  by  the  additional  intelligence  He  gives  to 
man  ;  that  is,  He  has  raised  in  man  a  desire  to  combat  evil.  He 
fosters  or  enlightens  that  desire  by  affixing  penalties  where  man 
has  declined  this  combat. 

If,  according  to  another  theory,  God  punishes  sin  simply  be- 
cause it  is  sin  —  simply  from  a  supposed  repugnance  or  hostility 
to  moral  evil,  without  any  regard  to  the  results  of  punishment  — 
then  I  admit  that  it  is  impossible  to  reconcile  such  notions  of 
God's  justice  with  the  fact  that  God%  is  the  Creator  of  the  world. 
But  this  last  theory  of  divine  punishment  is  not,  I  believe,  the 
one  generally  received. 

Perhaps  in  the  general  mind  there  is  some  confused  notion  of 
retributive  justice,  which  would  be  found  difficult  to  reconcile 
with  the  faith  equally  general  that  God  made  all  mankind,  and 
the  whole  of  our  humanity.  But  the  theory  that  God,  from  the 
necessity  of  his  nature,  must  punish  sin  as  sin,  without  regard 
to  the  beneficent  result  of  the  punishment  itself,  is  one  which 


290  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

would  be  only  formally  set  forth  by  a  peculiar  class  of  theolo- 
gians. It  matters  not,  however,  whether  that  class  of  theologians 
be  large  or  small ;  it  is  a  theory  utterly  irreconcilable  with  the 
belief  in  one  supreme,  creative,  and  beneficent  Intelligence. 

The  sentiment  of  remorse  is  debated  between  the  Vicar 
and  Sandford. 

Vicar.  There  is  justice  as  well  as  benevolence  in  the  charac- 
ter of  God.  It  is  character  as  well  as  happiness  for  which  God 
creates  us.  The  conscience  of  each  man  tells  him  that  he  lies 
open  to  deserved  punishment  —  to  punishment  which  has  not 
necessarily  any  reference  to  his  own  happiness  or  the  happiness 
of  others.  No  guilty  man  feels  that  he  ought  to  be  punished  for 
the  benefit  that  will  follow  from  his  punishment ;  enough,  he  de- 
serves it. 

Sandford.  Most  certainly  a  criminal  who  has  broken  the  laws 
of  God  or  man,  and  knows  that  a  grave  penalty  hangs  over  him, 
has  quite  enough  to  occupy  his  attention  for  the  time  ;  quite 
enough  in  this  one  association  between  his  crime  and  its  punish- 
ment. That  this  one  association  should  take  instant  and  full 
possession  of  his  mind  requires  no  psychological  explanation. 

Let  such  a  man,  however,  have  leisure  to  grow  calm,  and  let 
him  be  told  that  his  punishment  can  answer  no  good  purpose 
whatever,  and  he  will  be  the  first  to  exclaim  that  it  is  a  needless 
cruelty  to  punish  him.  .  .  . 

Vicar.  ...  I  want  you  to  dive  into  the  recesses  of  a  man's 
conscience  —  to  fasten  upon  his  free-will,  and  on  the  self-accusa- 
tion that  follows  upon  a  voluntary  wrong.  A  man  who  has  wil- 
fully broken  the  law  feels  that  he  is  a  culprit,  and  if  you  pardon 
him,  he  still  feels  that  he  is  a  culprit,  and  deserves  the  punish- 
ment of  one.  , 

Sandford.  I  do  dive  —  so  far  as  I  am  able  —  into  the  recesses 
of  the  conscience-stricken  mind.  I  find  there  an  emotion  of  ter- 
ror that  I  cannot  possibly  trace  to  anything  but  some  threat 
issued  by  man,  or  supposed  to  be  issued  from  God.  This  cannot 
be  a  feeling  springing  up  in  the  solitary  mind ;  the  individual 
mind  does  not  produce  the  threat  and  the  emotion  both. 

No  man  fears  a  punishment  from  God  unless  he  has  been 
taught  something  about  that  punishment :  and  his  fear  of  man 
depends  on  the  nature  of  his  relation  to  his  fellow-men. 


«  GRA  VENHURST."  291 

This  terror  of  the  conscience,  therefore,  lies  in  the  strong  as- 
sociation between  certain  acts  and  certain  threatenings,  more  or 
less  precise.  Nor  can  we  be  surprised  at  the  absorbing  char- 
acter of  the  emotion,  since  a  criminal  has  brought  down  upon 
himself  the  penalties  of  the  law,  the  hatred  of  his  neighbours, 
and  the  apprehension  of  the  supernatural  punishment  of  God. 
(Pages  270,  271.) 

It  is  obvious  how  the  idea  of  merit,  as  well  as  that  of 
guilt,  loses  much  of  its  former  significance  under  the 
philosophy  of  this  school.  The  charge  is  brought  by  its 
opponents  that  with  this  change  of  view  goes  a  loss  of 
moral  energy.  But  that  it  may  combine  a  charity  of 
judgment  with  ardor  against  vice  and  humility  in  virtue, 
many  instances  might  be  given.  Let  this  passage  here 
suffice  :  — 

We  owe  all  to  Heaven  —  even  our  virtues.  I  have  always  felt 
a  certain  timidity  in  dealing  out  the  requisite  censures  against 
men  who  have  been  led  into  error  by  hot,  impetuous  tempers, 
who  probably  thirsted  after  pleasures  and  excitements  which  to 
me  and  others  were  no  temptations  at  all.  If,  when  I  was  a 
young  man  at  the  university,  I  led  a  tranquil,  temperate,  and 
studious  life,  I  feel  that  I  should  be  something  of  a  hypocrite 
were  I  to  claim  any  merit  for  this.  Such  was  the  only  life  I 
cared  to  lead.  I  hated  noise.  I  preferred  fresh  air  to  breath- 
ing tobacco-smoke  fresh  from  the  mouths  of  other  men.  This 
alone  was  enough  to  keep  me  much  in  my  own  rooms.  The 
wine-party  was  simply  detestable.  The  morning  headache  had 
no  charms  for  me.  Bacchus  amongst  his  grapes  and  his  satyrs 
may  be  a  classic  subject  of  art :  out  of  the  canvas  he  is  very 
much  of  a  beast.  I  have  found  men  wittier  as  well  as  wiser 
when  they  were  quite  sober. 

Happy  those  to  whom  temperate  passions  have  been  given ! 
I  have  known  young  men  absurdly  and  even  hypocritically 
boastful  of  their  ungovernable  feelings.  They,  for  their  part, 
are  all  flame !  They  are  all  fool !  What  is  a  man  worth  unless 
he  is  master  of  himself  ?  unless  reason,  and  not  passion,  is  sit- 
ting at  the  helm  ?.  And  is  not  temperance  the  very  conservator 


292  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

of  that  youth  they  prize  so  much  —  which  perhaps,  indeed,  they 
have  not  yet  learned  to  prize  half  enough  ?     (Page  286.) 

To  turn  to  another  phase  of  the  subject,  our  author 
divides  what  we  know  as  "  evils  "  into  two  classes,  the 
remediable,  in  overcoming  which  consists  human  prog- 
ress ;  and  the  irremediable,  as  one  of  which  he  instances 
the  inexorable  limit  upon  man's  knowledge,  —  the  hopeless 
inequality  between  what  he  longs  to  know  and  what  it  is 
possible  for  him  to  know. 

The  state  of  the  case,  as  put  by  the  most  desponding  thinkers, 
is  this :  That  while  on  these  great  subjects  truth  is  not  to  be 
discovered,  some  men,  or  perhaps  most  men,  at  some  period  of 
their  lives,  believe  they  have  discovered  it.  It  is  necessary  to 
assume  this,  because  if  all  men  came  to  the  same  conclusion 
that  search  was  unavailing,  then  the  discrepancy  between  our 
wishes  and  our  powers  (which  is  here  made  the  subject  of 
lamentation)  would  cease,  and  men  would  live  contented  with 
their  ignorance. 

Attempts  "  to  think  the  unthinkable  "  are  not  incessantly 
made  but  on  the  assumption  that  some  men  believe  that  they 
succeed  where  others  perceive  failure  to  be  inevitable.  A  mix- 
ture of  doubt  and  faith  in  the  same  society  is  therefore  the 
final  condition  of  things  in  which  we  are  landed  by  those  who 
take  the  most  melancholy  view  of  human  knowledge.  This 
mixture  of  doubt  and  faith  is,  at  least,  favourable  to  intellectual 
energy  and  our  highest  life. 

The  man  who  stands  before  Nature,  and  earnestly  interro- 
gates her  and  his  own  soul  as  to  what  they  can  report  of  God, 
is  in  a  most  solemn  attitude  of  mind,  but  not  necessarily  a  pain- 
ful one.  Let  the  response  be  uncertain,  he  still  would  not  re- 
linquish that  attitude  of  mind  under  any  bribe  earth  could 
offer  ;  he  would  not  relinquish  it  unless  he  would  prefer  to  be 
a  beast  rather  than  a  man.  He  is  man  preeminently  when  he 
stands  in  that  attitude.  (Pages  193,  194.) 

Irremediable,  inevitable,  death  at  last  awaits  all.  Yet, 
would  we  wish  to  perpetuate  this  earthly  existence  ? 


"  GRA  VENHURST."  293 

How  much  of  life  should  we  lose  if  we  lived  perpetually ! 
How  stagnant  would  have  been  the  condition  of  man !  .  .  .  I 
cannot  conceive  that  this  middle-aged  immortal  would  ever 
keenly  anticipate  the  future.  Perhaps  wonder  itself  would  fade 
away  from  the  face  of  things.  And  that  eternity  beyond  life 
which  death  forever  points  to,  though  he  points  to  it  so  silently, 
would,  of  course,  cease  to  be  the  great  stimulant  of  man's  sub- 
limest  thoughts  and  emotions.  Nothing  could  be  so  fatal  to 
human  happiness  as  a  terrestrial  immortality.  (Pages  189,  190.) 

Clear  knowledge  of  a  future  existence  is  not  given  to 
us,  but  the  anticipation  of  a  hereafter  is  a  part  of  our  hu- 
man constitution. 

The  Vicar.  People  say  of  you  that  while  you  would  teach 
us  admiration  of  this  progressive  world,  you  would  shut  us  up 
within  the  limits  of  a  mundane  existence,  would  forbid  us  to 
aspire  beyond  it. 

Sandford.  I  would  teach  that  this  life  is  worthy  of  our  love 
and  admiration,  and  that  God  through  our  own  efforts  —  that  is, 
of  course,  through  the  efforts  we  are  constituted  to  make,  —  is 
still  rendering  it  more  excellent  and  more  happy.  But  I  have 
never  said  that  the  always  imperfect  knowledge  and  happiness 
of  man  would  confine  his  aspirations  within  the  circuit  of  our 
mortal  existence.  These  aspirations,  vague  as  they  may  be,  I 
take  to  be  an  inextinguishable  portion  of  our  humanity. 

Our  earth  bends  down  to  itself  our  rounded  sky,  makes  an 
ethereal  dome  for  itself  out  of  the  infinite  space  beyond.  So  it 
is  with  our  humanity  ;  it  rounds  a  heaven  for  itself  out  of  the 
infinite  and  the  eternal.  And  just  as  we  know  that  the  sky  is, 
and  yet  know  that  the  form  it  takes  is  due  to  our  earth ;  in 
like  manner  we  may  know  that  the  eternal  life  is,  and  yet  feel 
that  the  form  it  assumes  to  us  is  necessarily  due  to  our  present 
humanity.  It  is  a  complement  to  that  humanity  —  is  conceived 
by  some  relation  to  it. 

Ada.  Take  away  the  earth,  and  there  would  be  no  rounded 
sky;  take  away  the  sky,  and  earth  would  be  like  an  under- 
ground clod  which  is  inhabited  by  insects.  (Pages  279,  280.) 

It  is  the  very  nature  of  our  progress  in  one  direction  to 
lead  us  to  higher  aspirations  than  earth  can  gratify. 


294  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

Mansfield.  Death  will  be  always  with  us,  and  the  loss  of 
those  we  loved.  There  will  be  spirits  always  to  beckon  us  on- 
wards to  another  life. 

God  will  be  ever  with  us.  And  when  man  has  ceased  to  fear 
his  fellow-man,  he  will  dare  to  think  nobly  and  rationally  of 
God. 

Ada.  It  is  my  faith  that  God  will  raise  all  his  intelligent 
creatures  finally  to  the  knowledge  and  love  of  himself.  This, 
and  nothing  less  than  this,  can  I  accept  as  the  end  and  purpose 
of  creation. 

I  must  be  permitted  to  think  that  the  distresses  of  human 
life  have,  in  part  at  least,  their  explanation  in  this,  that  they 
carry  the  mind  onward  to  another  world. 

After  all  our  generalizations,  life  is  sad  to  many  of  us. 
Glorious  things  there  are  in  heaven  and  in  earth,  but  what  says 
our  poetess  ? 

"  Two  little  tears  suffice  to  hide  them  all ;  " 

and  age  after  age  men  have  consoled  themselves  and  each  other 
by  the  hope  of  some  compensating  happiness  hereafter.  (Pages 
325,326.) 

Ada  quotes  Tennyson's  familiar  verses  —  the  hope  that 
every  winter  shall  change  to  spring,  though  the  hope  is 
uttered  by  "  an  infant  crying  in  the  night ;  "  and  Sand- 
ford  responds :  "  Let  the  little  children  that  are  crying 
for  the  light  throw  their  arms  around  each  other's  neck, 
and  nestle  the  closer  for  the  darkness  that  surrounds 
them  :  so  will  they  best  subdue  the  terrors  of  the  night." 

Of  whatever  further  state  may  await  us,  one  charac- 
teristic we  know  with  perfect  assurance. 

Ada.  But  if  we  cannot  understand  how  the  criminal  is  pun- 
ished in  a  future  world  through  the  natural  consequences  of 
his  criminality,  we  can  understand  how  the  cultivation  of  piety  — 
of  love  to  God  and  man  —  will  be  there,  as  here,  its  own  exceed- 
ing great  reward.  This  cultivates  us  for  heaven  —  for  the  abode 
of  whatever  spirits  stand  nearer  than  we  do  to  the  throne  of  God. 
All  the  physical  universe  is  brought  together,  as  some  astron- 
omer writes,  "  by  the  one  common  element  of  light ;  "  and  in 


"  GRA  VENHURST."  295 

like  manner  all  the  spiritual  universe  must  be  bound  together 
by  the  one  common  element  of  love  —  that  love  which  is  also 
reason.  (Pages  278,  279.) 

As  to  the  tie  between  a  present  and  future  self,  this 
striking  thought  occurs. 

Ada.  Some  recollection  of  this  present  terrestrial  being  must, 
I  suppose,  remain,  otherwise  how  recognize  our  personal  iden- 
tity, or  the  continuance  of  our  existence  ?  But  I  recoil  from  the 
idea  that  we  shall  be  always  turning  over  the  pages  of  our  mem- 
ory, and  reading  the  frivolous,  blundering,  incoherent  entries  in 
it.  Strange  brain-book!  a  blotted  register,  whose  leaves  turn 
by  some  magic  of  their  own,  and  open  too  often  at  the  place  of 
least  pleasant  reading.  Most  mysterious  brain-book  !  And  we 
see  that  here  in  this  life  it  becomes  defaced,  and.  torn,  and 
stained,  and  scribbled  over,  till  nothing  further  can  be  regis- 
tered, and  the  leaves  turn  slowly,  and  open  only  at  a  few  of  the 
earliest  pages.  Well,  would  you  have  this  brain-book  restored 
—  as  some  expect  and  ask  for  —  every  word  of  it  made  legible, 
every  page  of  it  opening,  in  its  turn,  throughout  eternity  ?  Oh, 
better  far  some  new  brain-book,  to  be  filled  with  a  nobler  story ! 
Who  would  wish  to  be  reading  eternally  this  old  one  ? 

Sandford.  Immortality  is  a  great  hope,  but  a  dim  concep- 
tion. We  only  risk  our  hope  when  we  attempt  to  render  its  nar 
ture  distinct.  Our  ideal  acts  beneficently  upon  the  actual  and 
present  existence,  because  it  is  not  another  complete  life  that 
we,  in  fact,  depict  to  ourselves,  but  only  some  isolated  sentiment 
of  this  life,  that  we  glorify,  and  project,  and  follow,  we  know 
not  how,  into  eternity.  (Pages  228,  229.) 

And  here  is  the  true  application  of  the  supreme  hope :  - 

Preparation  for  another  life!  The  idea  is  grand,  none 
grander,  if  you  have  a  high  and  large  meaning  for  this  prepara- 
tion, if  every  beneficent  activity,  if  every  noble  joy,  if  every  ex- 
alted sentiment,  is  your  preparation  for  eternity.  The  end  of  a 
thousand  lives  is  just  this,  to  live,  under  God,  our  highest  life, 
to  develop  all  our  capacities  for  knowledge,  happiness,  goodness. 
Preparation  for  another  world,  in  this  sense,  cannot  be  separated 
from  progress  or  from  happiness  in  this.  It  is  identical  with 


296  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

our  highest  enjoyment  of  life,  with  our  noblest  efforts  to  ad- 
vance.    (Page  326.) 

Nowhere  in  "  Gravenhurst,"  nor  in  any  other  of  our 
author's  writings,  is  much  notice  taken  of  the  heaviest 
and  the  commonest  of  human  sorrows  —  the  sorrow 
of  bereavement.  It  is  said  indeed  that  the  fear  of  our 
friend's  death  gives  far  greater  pain  than  the  fear  of  our 
own,  and  a  few  of  the  words  we  have  quoted  breathe  a 
tender  consolation  and  hope.  But  the  theme  is  little 
dwelt  upon.  The  brevity  of  its  treatment  is  in  contrast 
with  the  full  recognition  given  to  the  suffering  which 
flows  from  the  felt  limitation  of  human  knowledge.  And 
yet,  nowhere  does  the  philosophy  of  "  Gravenhurst " 
admit  of  a  richer  application  than  here.  Of  no  sorrow 
is  the  beneficent  effect  more  traceable  than  of  bereave- 
ment. No  other  so  inspires  the  hope  of  a  hereafter; 
none  so  softens ;  none  has  such  power  to  deepen  and 
purify  affection,  to  fuse  it  with  moral  aspiration,  and 
to  widen  it  into  a  larger  sympathy.  "  Blessed  are  they 
that  mourn  "  —  true,  might  our  philosopher  of  "  Graven- 
hurst "  say,  for  the  very  meaning  of  comfort  is  unknown 
except  to  those  who  have  mourned. 

The  attitude  of  our  author  toward  the  Christian  church 
may  be  shown  by  one  or  two  passages. 

Mansfield.  When  I  returned  to  England,  nothing  struck  me 
more  than  the  increased  zeal  and  earnestness  in  all  parties 
throughout  the  domain  of  religious  inquiry.  But  that  which 
seemed  to  me  most  noteworthy  was  the  approximation  between 
a  philosophical  and  critical  section  of  the  Christian  church  and 
those  who  avowedly  trust  themselves  to  the  speculations  of  human 
reason.  It  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  a  small  party  almost 
prepared  to  yield  the  principle  of  Revelation,  if  they  could  be 
assured  that  certain  great  religious  truths  would  be  generally 
acknowledged  as  founded  on  human  reason.  On  the  other  hand, 
a  grave  and  pious  scepticism  had  arisen  amongst  us,  such  as 
feels  its  responsibility  to  God  and  man,  and  asks  itself  anxiously 


"  GRA  VENHURST.1"  297 

how  it  is  to  take  charge  of  society,  if  society  should  be  thrown 
upon  its  hands.  I  could  not  but  observe  how  much  there  is  of 
the  believer  in  our  modern  sceptic,  how  much  of  the  sceptic  in 
some  of  our  modern  believers.  (Page  249.) 

Sandford.  If  so  various  a  country  as  England  could  put  for- 
ward its  model,  or  "  representative  man,"  how  would  you  de- 
scribe him  ?  He  would  certainly  be  a  Christian,  but  a  Christian 
who  has  a  zeal  for  promoting  all  the  temporal  interests  of  soci- 
ety —  whether  it  is  a  system  of  drainage  or  a  system  of  educa- 
tion. And  astonishing  indeed  it  is  to  behold  the  number  of 
charitable,  municipal,  national  undertakings,  in  which  our  repre- 
sentative Christian  takes  the  lead.  We  do  honour  to  his  piety, 
but  we  demand  that  it  occupy  itself  with  the  good,  healthy, 
happy  life  of  this  terraqueous  globe.  We  have  very  little  re- 
spect for  the  solitary  raptures  of  saints,  looking  upward  into  the 
skies,  if  nothing  comes  of  it  for  this  lower  world.  Such  solitary 
raptures  we  rather  excuse  than  admire.  Vague  exultations  fol- 
lowed by  vague  depressions  —  we  leave  them  undisturbed.  But 
not  to  saintship  of  this  description  does  England  look  for  its  sal- 
vation. By  all  means,  let  this  or  that  gentle  youth  sit  apart, 
with  books  of  devotion  on  his  knees  —  sit  there  in  ecstatic,  hope- 
ful, amazed  condition  of  mind,  if  such  to  him  be  the  best  and 
most  innocent  mode  of  passing  his  existence.  Innocent  it  is,  and 
therefore  let  it  be  undisturbed.  But  England  thinks  it  has  other 
employment  for  its  youth,  and  looks  for  help  to  another  species 
of  piety.  (Page  289.) 

Ada.  There  was  a  voice  in  the  wilderness,  and  it  cried,  Re- 
pent !  And  there  followed  another  voice,  still  more  divine,  and 
it  said,  Love  !  And  the  tempest  arose,  —  the  tempest  of  wars, 
invasions,  revolutions,  —  and  it  carried  these  two  voices  round 
the  world,  and  to  this  moment  these  divine  words  are  every- 
where reechoed,  Repent  and  Love.  Repent  that  you  may  be 
pure,  and  capable  of  loving. 

To  grieve  for  our  failings,  and  to  love  each  other,  this  is  a 
teaching  worthy  of  being  called  divine.  Heaven's  authority  for 
the  preeminence  of  the  sentiment  of  Love  —  I  think  much  of  this. 
Love  is,  indeed,  the  very  passion  of  the  reason  ;  for  reason,  from 
its  nature,  can  desire  only  good.  Still  there  are  daring  moods, 
and  there  are  daring  reasoners,  occasionally  exalting  Hate  and 


298  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

Revenge  to  an  almost  equal  eminence.  See  how  some  sweet  ser- 
viceable Christian  soul  takes  upon  itself  to  love  all  the  afflicted  — 
all,  even  the  guilty.  Wherever  there  is  sickness  and  distress,  or 
crime,  which  is  a  sickness  of  the  soul,  the  Christian  comes  —  if 
possible  to  heal,  always  to  soothe  and  commiserate.  You  will  say 

—  no,  not  either  of  you,  but  some  stern  jurisprudential  moralist 
will  say  —  that  this  universal  charity  tends  to  obliterate  the  dis- 
tinctions between  virtue  and  vice  —  that  it  counteracts  the  moral 
opinion  of  society,  which  demands  that  love  and  kindly  service 
be  withdrawn  from  the  criminal.     But  this  universal  love,  re- 
member, is  love  with  tears  in  its  eyes  —  love  that  will  not  cease 
to  weep  and  protest  till  the  guilty  one  has  turned  from  his  guilt 

—  till  he  too  can  repent,  and  can  love.     Nay,  the  Christian  is 
the  true  philosopher  ;  for  shining  through  all  his  inevitable  cen- 
sure of  the  criminal  is  his  deep  compassion  that  the  man  should 
be  a  criminal  —  deep  compassion,  which  he  recognizes  as  a  di- 
vine sentiment,  —  which  he  hears  in  the  last  word  God  has  ut- 
tered out  of  eternity  to  his  suffering  and  bewildered  creatures. 

To  love  is  the  great  glory,  the  last  culture,  the  highest  hap- 
piness; to  be  loved  is  little  in  comparison.  Amongst  our 
strangely  complicated  relationships  of  life,  it  often  seems  as  if 
the  loved  one  had  all  the  advantage.  To  him  the  service,  for 
him  the  sacrifice  ;  from  him,  perhaps,  no  return.  You  pity 
some  deluded  mother,  impoverishing  herself  for  a  reprobate  son, 
who  laughs  as  he  spends  her  little  hoard.  Do  not  pity  —  ad- 
mire rather ;  she  is  happier  than  a  thousand  reprobates.  She 
loves.  Oh,  if  One  really  existed,  as  I  and  others  believe,  who 
loved  all  the  world,  and  in  some  inexplicable  way  suffered  for 
its  salvation,  he  was  a  God,  at  least,  in  his  sublime  happiness. 
Nor  should  I  say  that  it  was  a  "  religion  of  sorrow  "  that  such  a 
love  had  inaugurated.  (Pages  259,  260.) 

Where,  now,  in  briefest  word,  have  our  philosophizings 
brought  us  ?  How  do  we  return  from  them  to  the  view 
of  the  actual  world  and  our  own  business  therein  ? 

I  think  it  well  to  see  that  it  is  by  overcoming  evil,  as  well 
moral  evil  as  natural  evil,  that  we  rise  in  the  scale  of  creation. 
This  very  fact  convinces  us  that  evil  was  not  brought  here  other- 
wise than  beneficently  —  is,  in  fact,  part  of  the  scheme  of  a  be- 


"  GRA  VENHURST."  299 

nevolent  Creator.  This  may  aid  us,  too,  in  supporting  manfully 
the  unavoidable,  and  in  combating  manfully  all  remediable  evils. 
He  who  seeks  truth  and  loves  goodness  has  God  upon  his  side. 

I  think  it  well  to  see  that  the  higher  needed  the  lower,  that 
we  may  learn  to  respect  the  whole  of  our  humanity.  Even  that 
which  we  have  learnt  to  dispense  with  may  have  been  a  neces- 
sary help  to  our  present  elevation.  I  think  it  well  to  see  that 
Human  Society  becomes  the  mould  for  the  individual  man  born 
into  it,  and  to  see,  also,  how  this  mould  itself  becomes  improved 
by  those  stronger  minds  which  can  advance  upon  the  education 
they  have  received.  Such  truths  as  these  enlighten  each  man 
on  the  debt,  and  on  the  duty,  he  owes  to  society.  They  also 
show  Humanity,  as  a  whole,  standing  in  the  presence  of  a  be- 
neficent Creator,  —  but  one  whose  love  exacts  our  effort,  our 
endurance,  under  whom  pain  and  terror  ofttimes  do  the  offices 
of  love.  (Page  324.) 

All  who  battle  for  the  good  are,  in  the  language  of  a  natural 
piety,  the  children  of  God.  They  are  ranged  on  the  side  of 
goodness,  or  the  production  of  happiness,  and  they  also  receive 
into  their  hearts,  as  their  indisputable  reward,  the  highest  senti- 
ments of  happiness.  (Page  180.) 

It  is  a  noble  life  in  which  this  contest  is  bravely  and  wisely 
sustained.  Worlds  there  may  be  where  there  is  only  pleasure, 
and  only  goodness,  but  we  can  form  no  conception  of  such  a 
state  of  things ;  or  so  far  as  we  can  form  any  conception,  it  is  a 
languid  pleasure  and  a  torpid  goodness  that  rises  to  our  imagi- 
nation. It  is  not  our  supreme  wisdom  to  pass  life  dreaming  of  a 
world  where  there  will  be  no  evil ;  it  is  highest  wisdom,  individ- 
ually and  socially,  to  do  battle  for  the  good,  so  that  this  mingled 
existence  which  is  alone  intelligible  to  us  may  put  on  all  the 
glory  it  is  capable  of.  From  this  contest  we  win  our  felicity  and 
our  progress,  and  the  contest  itself  is  a  great  and  enduring  hap- 
piness, which  runs  through  all  the  ages  of  mankind.  All  that  is 
energetic  and  noble  savours  of  this  contest.  Aye,  even  what  is 
tenderest  in  human  life  comes  out  of  some  struggle  between 
good  and  evil.  Even  our  very  piety  springs  from  it.  (Pages 
139,  140.) 

Do  not  ask  for  a  world  without  evil.  Seek  rather  to  know 
and  rightly  appreciate  this  our  own  dark-bright  existence,  and 


300  WILLIAM  AND   LUCY  SMITH. 

enter,  heart  and  soul,  into  the  old  warfare  for  the  Good !     (Page 
139.) 

At  the  outset  of  William  Smith's  life  its  purpose 
seemed  fitly  summed  up  in  Charles  Kingsley's  phrase, 
kt  Given  self,  to  find  God."  The  deepest  finding  lay  in 
that  fidelity  to  moral  good  which  he  never  forsook.  But 
the  intellectual  quest  was  long  and  arduous.  The  barrier 
to  intellectual  peace  lay  in  the  seeming  contradiction  in- 
volved in  the  existence  of  evil  in  a  divinely  ordered  world. 
In  "  Gravenhurst "  we  have  at  last  an  interpretation  of  evil 
as  the  servant  of  good.  It  is  an  interpretation  that  only 
became  possible  when  the  light  of  modern  knowledge  had 
been  thrown  on  the  procedure  of  the  universe.  Perplex- 
ities remain  and  doubtless  always  will  remain.  But  great 
is  the  advance,  glad  as  morning  is  the  light !  The  seeker, 
"  sublimely  meek,"  who  entered  the  clouds  and  darkness 
of  Sinai,  comes  back  with  a  prophet's  message. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

SWITZERLAND. 

(From  the  Memoir.} 

IN  the  May  of  1862  "  Gravenhurst "  was  published,  and 
we  went  to  Switzerland  for  five  months,  dividing  the  time 
between  Bex,  Zermatt,  Sixt,  Chamounix,  and  Unterseen. 
It  was  our  custom  to  settle  down  quietly  at  one  place  after 
another,  to  get  its  loveliness  by  heart,  and  to  be  free  from 
that  ruffling  of  equanimity  bad  weather  may  entail  on  the 
rapid  tourist.  Our  fortnight  at  Zermatt  stands  out  very 
prominently  in  my  memory.  The  keen  air  and  the  kind 
of  scenery  exhilarated  my  husband  to  the  utmost.  In  a 
manuscript  book  of  his  I  find,  very  hastily  jotted  down  : 
"  Two  short,  long  weeks  and  all  my  future,  such  is  your 
share,  Zermatt,  of  my  life.  Nowhere  the  torrents  so 
grand,  the  snow-hills  more  beautifully  set.  I  cannot  de- 
scribe the  scene  on  the  Gorner  Grat  —  but  I  recur  to  it 
and  keep  it  alive.  All  pleasure  —  flowers  —  the  English 
hare-bell  looks  up  from  my  ankle,  the  white  Pinguicula 
(as  if  dropt  from  the  skies  upon  its  stalk,  on  which  it  rests 
rather  than  grows),  shy  as  the  violet  and  more  delicate. 
You  look  up  from  the  flower  and  down  into  the  ravine. 
I  tremble  as  I  look  below,  —  one  false  step  and  all  the 
beauty  is  gone  forever,  gone  for  me  !  And  see,  the  tor- 
rent-stream is  so  safe,  —  just  here  is  its  low  bed  scooped  in 
the  solid  rock ;  it  is  so  distant  as  to  seem  quite  silent. 
And  then  the  village,  and  the  cows,  and  the  goats,  and  the 
church  and  the  bells  ;  a  great  deal  of  the  praying  here 
seems  done  by  the  bells,  and  not  badly." 


302  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

What  rapturous  memories  of  our  long  walks  those  few 
words  waken !  At  Zermatt,  too,  we  made  an  interesting 
and  enduring  friendship.  We  were  there  early  in  June, 
and  the  Hotel  du  Mont  Cervin  had  only  two  other  in- 
mates, a  young  husband  and  wife,  and  their  sweet  child  of 
three.  The  visitors'  book  gave  their  names ;  they  were 
New-Englanders.  We  never  thought  it  worth  while  to 
record  ours,  and  hence  in  the  course  of  two  or  three  days 
Mr.  Loomis,  who  discerned  something  remarkable  about 
the  man,  asked  William  what  his  was.  "  The  commonest 
of  all  English  names,  William  Smith."  "  Yes,  but  I  like 
it  for  the  sake  of  a  favourite  author."  And  then  I  broke 
in,  inquiring,  with  a  strong  presentiment  as  to  what  the 
answer  would  be,  which  of  the  numberless  Smiths  he  al- 
luded to?  "The  author  of  '  Thorndale.'  "  It  was  a  great 
pleasure  to  me  to  say,  "  This  is  he."  Mr.  Loomis  had 
with  him  the  American  edition  of  the  book,  which  my  hus- 
band saw  with  interest.  So  began  a  friendship  and  corre- 
spondence that  were  kept  up  to  the  last. 

We  had  had  some  vague  idea  of  spending  the  winter 
in  Switzerland,  but  the  illness  of  my  dear  father  recalled 
us.  The  winter  was  spent  at  Weston-super-Mare,  where 
we  knew  no  one  —  where  from  the  14th  of  October  to  the 
17th  of  February  we  only  spoke  to  each  other ;  and  never 
were  we  more  cheerful  than  under  these  circumstances. 
The  place  itself  had  not  much  interest  —  country  and  sea 
were  alike  tame  ;  but  the  beautiful  sunsets  in  front  of  our 
large  window  were  a  constant  source  of  pleasure,  and  we 
had  Switzerland  to  remember.  But,  indeed,  however  ec- 
static my  husband's  enjoyment  of  Swiss  glories,  it  was  far 
less  exceptional  than  his  unfailing  delight  in  the  familiar 
shows  of  earth  and  sky.  It  never  was  more  true  than  of 
him  that  — 

"  The  poet  hath  the  child's  sight  in  his  breast, 
And  sees  all  new.     What  oftenest  he  has  viewed, 
He  views  with  the  first  glory." 


S  W1TZERLAND.  303 

As  usual,  during  these  peaceful  months  William  was 
thoroughly  occupied,  not  only  in  writing  for  the  magazine, 
but  with  psychological  subjects.  In  the  manuscript  book 
that  at  that  time  lay  upon  his  desk,  I  find  much  jotted 
down  under  the  head  of  "  Knowing  and  Feeling."  But  the 
one  thing  in  him  that  I  regretted  was  his  habit  of  writing 
so  many  of  his  thoughts  illegibly,  even  to  himself.  He 
would  often  deplore  his  own  way  of  working,  —  extracts 
made,  line  of  argument  traced  out,  to  be  referred  to  here- 
after, and  when  wanted  undecipherable !  When  a  new 
manuscript  book  was  begun,  there  would  he  resolve  to  do 
better ;  but  habit  was  too  strong,  the  pen  flew  too  fast, 
the  writing  (in  his  letters  so  delicate  and  clear)  baffled 
the  writer's  own  patience. 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

ZERMATT,  June  18,  1862. 

This  is  the  place  of  places  !  No  mountain  that  I  ever 
saw  equals  the  Matterhorn  in  his  hold  over  one's  mind. 
Read  about  him,  I  beg,  in  Murray.  How  he  rears  him- 
self up  —  how  when  the  clouds  come  round  him  it  takes 
your  breath  away  every  time  that  he  emerges .  to  find  that 
his  head  can  indeed  be  there  so  incredibly  high !  .  .  .  On 
our  way  here,  at  Visp,  I  heard  as  I  believed  pouring  rain 
all  night,  but  did  not  like  to  get  up  and  verify,  fearing  to 
disturb  William.  At  five  we  were  up.  It  was  the  river, 
not  the  rain,  I  had  heard ;  clouds  were  rising ;  guides 
promised  fine  weather.  We  were  in  our  saddles  at  seven. 
How  you  would  have  enjoyed  it !  I  soon  lost  all  sense  of 
nervousness,  and  indeed  there  is  nothing  to  be  the  least 
nervous  about.  I  love  precipices,  and  to  stretch  out  my 
arms  over  a  gorge  with  a  torrent  at  the  bottom.  The 
nine  hours'  ride  was  one  ecstasy  of  enjoyment;  the  day 
perfect,  the  horse  an  angel  the  saddle  an  arm-chair. 
Murray  gives  one  no  idea  of  the  grandeur  of  the  scenery 
the  whole  way  to  Zermatt.  What  with  perpendicular  and 


304  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

richly  colored  rocks,  hills  wooded  sometimes  to  their  tops, 
and  overlooked  by  one  white  summit  aftfcr  another,  the 
river  roaring  far  below,  the  flowers  by  the  wayside,  the 
butterflies  that  crossed  one's  path ;  what  with  the  gran- 
deur and  the  beauty,  and  all  of  it  "  reflected  from  the  eyes 
that  one  loves,"  I  may  say  life  culminated  that  day.  And 
yet  the  next  was  I  think  better,  for  William  was  in  my 
room  at  five,  wild  with  spirits,  feeling  the  air  gives  him 
new  life,  and  wanting  instantly  to  be  off  on  another  expe- 
dition. Accordingly  off  we  set  to  the  Schwarzsee  (read 
about  it)  and  oh,  the  glory  of  Monte  Rosa,  cloudless  to 
the  summit,  and  the  fairy  beauty  of  the  flowers !  Coming 
down,  we  got  wrapped  in  clouds.  I  liked  to  see  them 
rising  like  smoke,  so  rapidly  out  of  the  valley,  veiling  the 
mountains,  then  all  melting  away  suddenly.  I  would  not 
have  been  without  them,  though  it  was  very  cold.  I  have 
got  to  like  the  feeling  of  going  up-stairs  on  horseback. 
We  had  one  of  the  sweet  fellows  who  brought  us  over 
the  day  before,  and  a  lovely  youth  of  eighteen  as  guide. 
Fuchs  (such  was  the  dear  horse's  name)  wriggled  so  de- 
lightfully up  great  slabs  of  rock  !  There  was  no  one  in 
the  great  hotel  but  an  American  Congregational  minister 
and  his  wife  and  child  —  he  a  remarkably  handsome 
young  man  in  delicate  health,  she  healthy  and  kindly  look- 
ing, with  loving  eyes,  and  a  quite  caressing  smile.  What 
walks  we  had  Saturday  and  Sunday,  what  snow  moun- 
tains we  saw  —  the  Twins  and  the  Lyskamm  (almost  as 
high  as  Monte  Rosa),  towering  above  the  beautiful  Gorner 
Glacier,  and  a  fringe  of  fir-trees  for  foreground,  and  such 
a  sky !  And  then  think  what  it  is  to  see  William  wild 
with  health  and  mirth,  and  full  of  the  most  bewitching 
conceptions.  We  have  walked  every  day  in  spite  of  the 
weather,  which  broke  up  on  Monday.  Tuesday  we  went 
to  see  the  river  Visp  break  out  of  its  icy  cradle,  so  weird 
and  grand  and  desolate,  with  the  mist  of  rain  hanging 
round.  Yesterday  I  was  thinking  about  other  things,  and 


SWITZERLAND.  305 

down  I  went  on  a  slab  of  rock,  not  knocking  my  head,  but 
jarring  it  terribly.  It  aches  this  morning,  but  I  'm  quite 
well.  .  .  .  We  talk  of  going  to  Sixt,  and  there  spending 
perhaps  a  month  or  six  weeks.  We  must  settle  some- 
where where  I  can  get  on  with  my  translation,  for  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Strahan  announces  two  other  books,  and  also 
that  I  may  write  two  other  "  Photographic  Sketches  "  — 
so  one  must  be  a  little  fixed. 

VALLEY  OF  SIXT,  July  31, 1862. 

The  hotel  at  Sixt  is  an  extraordinary  old  place.  It  was 
once  a  monastery  —  but  I  have  already  described  it  to  the 
dear  grandparents,  and  will  only  say  of  it  that  it  is  the 
most  haunted  looking  place  I  have  ever  been  in,  with  its 
low  arched  windowless  corridor  of  120  feet,  into  which  the 
bedrooms  open ;  and  the  first  evening,  when  we  were  the 
only  persons  in  the  house  I  could  not  let  your  uncle  Wil- 
liam leave  me  for  a  moment,  such  was  my  nervous  con- 
dition. Half  the  building  is  utterly  dilapidated ;  there  are 
underground  dark  places,  and  an  old  crypt  communicating 
with  the  church  which  at  night  seemed  to  me  unutterably 
gloomy.  However,  our  room  was  large  and  charming. 
Nothing  can  exceed  the  loveliness  of  the  scenery  —  loveli- 
ness and  grandeur.  Three  weeks  have  passed  away  very 
happily.  We  had  once  a  char-a-banc  with  an  enchanting 
mule,  and  a  kind  one,  —  generally  they  are  vicious,  and  I 
cannot  express  my  affectionate  admiration  for  fear  of  being 
bit  —  but  with  that  exception  we  have  contented  ourselves 
with  long  walks,  for  mules  are  an  expensive  luxury.  The 
country  people  here  are  a  particularly  pleasant  and  con- 
versable race.  I  seldom  walk  alone  without  a  long  chat 
with  some  one,  and  a  chapter  of  family  history.  They  go 
much  to  raris  from  this  lovely  valley  —  in  which  it  is 
quite  difficult  to  believe  in  Paris,  or  any  large  town  with 
its  unrest  and  turmoil.  This  is  the  land  of  waterfalls. 
There  are  six  really  fine  ones  within  an  easy  walk.  Of 


306  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

these  three  gush  out  of  the  ground,  fed  by  some  tarn  or 
by  the  glacier  on  the  mountain  top  far  away.  Some  days 
I  have  sat  at  home  to  translate,  while  my  dear  one  took  a 
ramble  alone.  Some  charming  walks  we  have  taken  to- 
gether. Once  I  went  off  alone  at  half -past  six  to  an  ele- 
vation several  thousand  feet  above  Sixt.  In  short,  it  has 
been  very  delightful  —  the  weather  glorious  —  the  loftiest 
mountains  cloudless,  seeming  to  "  melt  and  throb  away 
at  the  sight  of  the  great  sky,"  and  lit  up  at  sunset  with 
intense  rare  color.  ...  In  this  large  airy  room  we  have 
never  suffered  from  excessive  temperature.  There  has 
been  but  one  drawback  —  the  fleas !  sometimes  I  have 
been  tempted  to  be  quite  low  about  them.  I  often  catch 
two  enemies  at  the  same  moment  with  each  hand  —  eight 
or  ten  a  day  is  the  constant  average. 

Chamounix,  /Sunday  afternoon.  We  left  Sixt  Friday 
evening  in  the  drollest  vehicle  you  ever  saw,  like  a  thing 
in  Hogarth's  prints  —  a  car  for  two  with  a  canopy,  so : 
[picture] .  It  is  almost  on  the  ground,  but  very  easy,  and 
we  had  a  darling  horse,  who  went  at  a  famous  pace  and 
never  seemed  at  all  tired.  Our  canopy  kept  out  a  burn- 
ing sun.  We  left  Samoens  at  half  past  five  yesterday, 
and  the  beauty  of  the  peaked,  bold  mountains,  all  lilac 
haze  in  the  morning  light,  and  the  rich  foliage  on  their 
slopes,  is  not  to  be  told.  So  much  for  effects  of  light  and 
shade  —  we  had  thought  that  drive  rather  dull  which  now 
kept  us  speechless  with  entranced  ecstasy.  And  then  the 
dew  on  the  grass,  and  on  our  spirits!  So  fresh,  so 
happy !  When  we  got  to  St.  Martin,  Mont  Blanc  was 
cloudless  in  his  immensity.  William  lay  on  the  ground 
the  two  hours,  lost  to  all  sense  of  fatigue  and  hunger.  I, 
a  lower  creature,  hunted  and  slew  the  last  fleas  of  Sixt, 
and  ate  an  omelette.  We  had  quite  a  touching  little  part- 
ing at  Sixt,  Friday  evening,  —  the  sweet  Marie,  the  maid, 
so  sorry  to  lose  us,  and  the  washerwoman  coming  out  to 


SWITZERLAND.  307 

shake  hands  and  offer  an  oleander  and  a  most  fragrant 
rose  as  a  "  souvenir  de  Sixt "  —  sweet  Sixt !  We  left  St. 
Martin  at  about  one  o'clock.  From  Chede  the  rise  was 
long  and  steep,  and  we  walked  a  good  deal  beneath  the 
most  burning  of  suns,  but  there  was  a  breeze  and  often 
shade,  and  the  scenery  the  whole  way  to  Servoz  was  be- 
yond description.  From  Servoz  a  dear  mule  was  taken  to 
assist  our  famous  horse  and  we  walked  no  more.  What 
the  glory  was  !  But  some  miles  before  we  reached  Cha- 
mounix  I  was  too  tired  to  feel  anything.  William,  on  the 
contrary,  all  soul,  and  all  thrilled  with  the  vast,  simple, 
cold,  stern  grandeur  of  this  valley,  as  peak  after  peak 
seemed  to  fall  into  line  and  range  themselves  under  the 
white  banner  of  the  monarch  mountain.  There  are  as 
many  mules  here  as  people,  and  such  immense,  sleek,  de- 
lightful fellows.  But  they  are  very  expensive,  and  we 
will  see  what  we  can  walking.  To-day  I  have  been  to 
church.  There  is  a  very  pretty  English  church  here,  and 
a  most  earnest,  elderly  man  preached.  William  has  had 
a  day  of  rapture,  on  the  grass,  looking  at  Mont  Blanc. 
He  came  in  with  one  of  his  inspired  looks,  which  so  won- 
drously  change  the  aspect  of  the  man.  After  all,  he  thinks 
nothing  we  have  seen  so  grand  as  this.  I  infinitely  pre- 
fer Zermatt  and  the  marvellous  Matterhorn. 

WESTON-SUPER-MARE,  Nov.,  1862. 

My  darling,  you  see  your  Zia  sits  down  promptly  to 
answer  your  little  note,  though  it  is  but  a  shabby  affair. 
I  should  have  liked  it  to  be  an  impulse  and  a  pleasure  to 
write  to  her,  but  people  are  not  to  be  persuaded  into 
impulses.  However,  whatever  you  might  say  would  be 
thought  by  me  well  worth  hearing.  Your  Zia  likes  to 
hear  of  small  details,  of  letters  received  and  the  like, 
as  well  as  of  feelings  and  thoughts.  And  for  your  own 
dear  sake  remember  that  the  effort  made  to  write  a  long 
letter  leaves  a  sense  of  cheerfulness  behind  that  a  hasty 


308  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

note  dashed  off  never  does.  Your  darling  godmother 
writes  such  pleasant  things  of  you  —  they  so  thoroughly 
like  you  and  admire  your  pretty  face.  This  is  not  the 
least  likely  to  make  you  vain,  any  vanity  you  may  have 
being  of  the  pining  and  rather  morbid  order  that  wants 
to  be  fed  up  into  health  !  Mine  was  always  of  the  same 
nature,  and  partial  appreciation  always  did  me  immense 
good.  It  is  only  when  people  rate  us  a  little  above  our 
true  standard  that  we  can  come  up  to  it.  Oh,  it  is  so 
good,  therefore,  to  love  and  be  loved  !  I  rejoice  more  than 
I  can  say  that  you  should  be  with  two  such  samples  of 
human  nature  as  General  and  Mrs.  Cotton.  I  am  sure 
you  must  feel  your  spirits  rise  as  you  see  what  a  divine 
thing  this  earthly  life  may  be  made  —  this  life  which  with 
all  its  exquisite  possibilities  lies  all  before  you.  You  were 
at  Chester,  my  dear,  this  day  fortnight,  when  your  Gran 
got  a  long  letter  from  me,  which  of  course  you  saw.  1 
have  just  had  an  excellent  account  from  her.  Dear  Gran  ! 
She  writes  in  such  good  spirits  and  the  dear  Grandpere 
has  been  down,  she  says,  several  times,  and  must  be  mar- 
vellously better,  for  he  speaks  of  being  photographed  next 
week.  Tell  me,  my  dear  one,  when  you  know,  your  winter 
plans,  but  meanwhile  give  nothing  a  thought  but  your 
happy  visit.  I  rejoice  to  believe  that  dear  Edith  is  quite 
happy  with  the  grandparents.  It  is  pleasant  to  us  all  k. 
feel  ourselves  of  use,  and  of  consequence  to  the  daily  lives 
of  others.  I  thought  Edith  so  improved  in  every  way. 
It  is,  I  am  sure,  very  good  for  her  to  be  at  Chester  —  all 
her  more  helpful  qualities  are  called  into  play.  Did  I  tell 
you  —  I  mean,  did  I  tell  in  my  last  letter  to  the  Gran  - 
what  a  charming  review  there  had  been  of  "  Graveiihurst " 
in  the  "  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  ?  "  We  lead  such  a 
quiet  life  here,  so  different,  so  contrasted  in  its  circum- 
stances with  the  social  one  your  sweet  godmother  leads. 
We  do  not  know  a  single  person,  nor  shall  we  during  our 
months  here  speak  to  any  one  but  to  each  other  !  And  yet 


SWITZERLAND.  309 

I  maintain  that  we  both  are  very  social  people.  I  saw  it 
remarked  the  other  day  that  the  most  solitary  people  are 
at  the  same  time  the  most  sociable,  and  it  really  is  a  truth 
though  it  seems  a  paradox.  I  can't  say  I  want  anything, 
for  that  would  imply  some  sadness  or  discontent,  and 
every  one  of  my  days  is  brim-full  of  happiness.  But  yet 
if  any  friend  did  appear,  it  would  be  very  charming,  too. 
Sometimes  we  think,  how  nice  to  go  to  Edinburgh,  where 
we  have  so  many  real  friends.  .  .  .  Oh,  those  St.  Ber- 
nard dogs  !  what  precious  creatures  they  must  be  —  what 
delicious  cheeks  they  must  have  —  how  I  should  kiss 
them  !  Are  they  much  attached  to  their  master  and  mis- 
tress ?  There  are  not  many  dogs  here,  not  any  that  I  am 
on  speaking  terms  with.  I  must  needs  tell  you  of  my 
letters,  dear,  for  unless  I  record  what  we  have  had  for  din- 
ner the  last  week,  or  prose  about  the  books  we  have  been 
reading,  or  get  upon  William's  perfections,  which  I  am 
always  in  danger  of  doing  —  what  have  I  to  write  about  ? 
We  are  living  very  economically  here.  Indeed,  we  must 
do  so,  for  we  have  mainly  our  work  to  depend  upon,  and 
that  is  a  precarious  thing.  I  have  been  employing  myself 
in  translating  one  of  Victor  Hugo's  poems,  but  I  dare  say 
I  shall  not  get  it  taken. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

MOTHER   AND   DAUGHTER. 

{From  the  Memoir.) 

IN  the  spring  of  1863,  after  a  little  round  of  visits  —  a 
thing  unprecedented  with  us  —  we  found  ourselves  again 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Coniston,  attracted  thither  mainly 
by  friends  with  whom,  during  our  stay  at  Tent  Cottage, 
we  had  entered  into  cordial  relations,  and  whom  we  had 
much  enjoyed  meeting  during  our  Swiss  tour.  One  of 
these  friends  was  an  especially  congenial  companion  to 
my  husband,  and  his  correspondent  to  the  end.  When- 
ever he  had  received  any  new  or  vivid  delight  from  art  or 
nature,  or  whenever  a  political  or  religious  movement  had 
excited  in  him  more  than  usual  interest,  I  always  knew 
that  the  sheets  of  note-paper  I  saw  spread  out  on  the  lit- 
tle desk  were  destined  for  Miss  Rigbye.  She  will  not,  I 
know,  object  to  my  quoting  here  her  earliest  impression  of 
him  :  — 

"  I  like  to  recall  the  first  time  I  saw  him,  and  the  feel- 
ing that  his  joyous,  radiant  expression  awakened  in  me  — 
something  of  surprise,  and  wonder,  and  pleasure.  I  re- 
member distinctly  recognizing  that  it  was  something  I  had 
never  seen  before." 

During  the  course  of  this  summer,  there  fell  upon  me 
an  irreparable  blow,  —  the  death  within  one  week  of  both 
beloved  parents.  But  my  husband's  presence  made  an- 
guish (as  I  now  understand  the  word)  impossible.  A  few 
days  before  her  sudden  seizure,  my  mother  had  said  to  me, 
"  Thank  God,  my  darling,  that  when  I  am  in  my  grave 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  311 

you  will  have  one  to  love  you  as  I  do !  "  She,  better  than 
any  one,  would  have  understood  how,  having  all  in  him, 
even  her  loss  could  not  darken  life.  My  joy  henceforth 
lacked  the  complete  reflection  it  had  found  from  her  sym- 
pathy, but  it  was  "  fulness  of  joy  "  still.  More  than  ever 
my  company,  more  than  ever  tender,  my  husband  seemed 
resolved  that  my  nature  should  know  no  want.  Part  of 
the  ensuing  winter  was  spent  in  Edinburgh  amid  true 
friends  ;  the  remainder  at  Brighton. 

The  story  of  her  parents'  last  days  was  written  in  a 
letter  to  be  circulated  among  their  friends.  From  the 
touching  story  we  take  two  or  three  passages. 

August  19,  1863. 

[She  relates  how  she  was  summoned  to  her  parents  at 
Chester,  her  father,  for  a  long  time  blind  and  an  invalid, 
having  suffered  a  second  stroke  of  paralysis.  She  found 
him  unable  to  speak,  though  evidently  with  clear  mind.] 
I  believe  that  he  never  for  a  moment  expected  to  recover, 
though  when  we  told  him  of  good  symptoms  he  would 
bow  a  gracious  assent.  But  that  was  for  our  sakes.  He 
knew  the  value  of  hope  to  those  who  attend  the  sick. 
Meanwhile,  as  I  found  that  to  speak  much  to  him  was  to 
provoke  painful  efforts  to  reply,  that  he  seemed  indiffer- 
ent to  reading,  and  that  my  presence  did  not  soothe  him 
more  than  that  of  others,  I  was  less  taken  up  with  him  than 
I  had  been  during  my  two  previous  visits,  and  more  con- 
stantly with  my  own  most  precious  mother.  All  who  know 
me  at  all  know,  I  think,  how  intensely  I  loved  her,  how  in- 
tensely we  loved  each  other.  But  never  in  my  whole  life 
did  I  appreciate  her  more  than  during  this  last  fortnight. 
Everything  was  cheery  and  pleasant.  She  took  a  hopeful 
view  of  my  dear  father's  case,  trusted  she  might  yet  see 
him  sitting  up  a  little  in  his  chair,  rejoiced  in  his  freedom 
from  bodily  pain,  and  made  the  best  of  everything.  .  .  . 


312  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

During  my  stay  in  Chester,  the  weather  was  almost  with- 
out exception  bright,  joyous,  breezy.  My  mother  and  I 
usually  took  a  long  walk  in  the  evening.  How  she  en- 
joyed the  air,  the  sunset  sky,  the  waving  of  the  trees  be- 
fore the  house,  the  flowers  in  other  people's  gardens,  the 
noise  and  laughter  of  children  in  the  street !  How  heav- 
enly her  spirit  was !  I  remarked  to  many  that  she  was 
more  perfect  than  ever  —  the  fine  gold  seemed  to  have 
lost  all  alloy.  There  were  no  longer  the  importunate  beg- 
gars besieging  the  door  who  had  chafed  my  less  confiding 
nature  on  former  occasions.  She  had  all  her  characteris- 
tic energy  of  kindness  and  sympathy,  but  she  had  no  rest- 
lessness with  it.  She  would  lie  on  the  sofa  so  placidly, 
reading  some  religious  book,  or  knitting  the  unfinished 
stocking  which  is  now  one  of  my  best  treasures.  Her  ap- 
petite was  good ;  she  enjoyed  her  dinner,  enjoyed  her 
bed,  enjoyed  especially  the  morning  service  at  the  Cathe- 
dral, enjoyed  Dr.  McNeile's  sermon,  enjoyed  my  chat,  my 
jokes,  enjoyed  the  gambols  of  puss  and  puppy,  enjoyed 
my  letters  which  were  always  hers  to  read,  enjoyed  every- 
thing. I  think  the  words  "  In  everything  giving  thanks  " 
would  have  been  her  fittest  motto.  How  we  talked  !  I 
fancy  that  no  one  estimated  her  intelligence  quite  so  cor- 
rectly as  I.  She  had  a  sweet  humility  that  often  kept  her 
silent  in  society,  to  herself  so  often  her  opinion  did  not 
seem  worth  giving  ;  but  with  me  she  thought  aloud,  and  I 
was  often  struck  by  the  breadth  and  enlightenment  of  her 
views,  and  always  by  the  correctness  of  her  taste.  Intui- 
tively she  discerned  the  best  in  character,  literature,  art. 
I  always  found  her  the  most  attractive  of  companions. 
Age  had  not  touched  one  faculty  of  her  mind.  I  mourn 
her  (she  was  seventy-eight)  as  I  should  mourn  a  contem- 
porary. Yet  I  thank  God  that  it  was  so.  I  would  rather 
part  with  my  treasures  when  treasured  most,  than  be 
weaned  from  them  by  any  diminution  of  their  excellence. 
I  prefer  the  sharp  pang  and  the  perfect  memory.  Oh, 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  313 

how  we  talked  —  of  life  and  death,  and  all  connected  with 
death,  for  the  possibilities  of  my  dear  father's  case  intro- 
duced that  theme.  The  morning  I  went  away  (Monday, 
the  third)  she  said,  "  How  I  shall  miss  you,"  and  for  a 
second  her  dear  face  grieved,  "  but  I  don't  give  myself  a 
thought  in  the  matter,  and  I  would  not  keep  you  any 
longer  from  dear  William  for  five  hundred  pounds." 
The  precious  angel!  [The  mother's  sudden  illness  re- 
called the  daughter,  two  days  later.]  Whether  she  knew 
me  or  not  I  can  never  be  sure  —  never  in  this  world. 
The  dear  eyes  would  not,  could  not,  meet  mine,  the  dear 
hand  could  not  return  my  pressure.  There  was  no  evi- 
dence of  suffering,  and  from  time  to  time  the  sweetest 
smiles  played  over  the  face.  I  think  she  must  have  heard 
my  voice.  One  thing  she  certainly  heard  —  I  asked  dear 
Maria  Barker  to  repeat  to  her  her  favourite  hymn,  the 
hymn  she  knew  by  heart :  — 

"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee." 

There  was  a  radiance  then  in  the  eyes  and  the  sweet 
lips  moved,  as  though  joining  in  that  prayer.  I  think,  too, 
she  must  have  been  conscious  of  my  unalterable  love  and 
sorrow,  but  that  may  have  seemed  secondary  then.  More 
than  once  she  tried  to  tell  us  something  —  something 
cheerful,  happy,  peaceful;  that  was  plain  from  the  ex- 
pression of  the  face.  My  arm  was  under  her  when  the 
long  breath,  and  then  the  pause,  came.  Not  a  struggle, 
not  a  contortion,  not  one  physical  horror.  It  seemed 
meet  that  she  whose  life  was  so  sweet,  so  imbued  with  con- 
sideration for  others,  should  even  in  her  dying  give  no 
one  any  pain,  any  memory  that  they  would  wish  to  lose. 
...  I  left  her  looking  as  if  my  lightest  call  would  waken 
her  from  that  lifelike  and  most  placid  sleep,  and  went  at 
once  to  my  dear  father's  room.  What  he  must  have  suf- 
fered during  that  day  and  night  of  suspense,  when  he 


314  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

never  heard  her  dear,  prompt,  helpful  step  or  heard  her 
cheering,  comforting  voice,  God  alone  knows.  He  knew 
that  she  was  ill ;  Brownlow  had  told  him  so,  told  him  once 
that  she  was  very  ill  he  feared  ;  and  he  must  have  heard 
occasional  sounds  of  grief,  for  between  the  rooms  there 
was  only  the  closed  door.  My  dear  father !  I  went  to  him, 
kissed  him,  told  him  our  dearest  one  was  "  better  now,  well 
now."  At  once  he  caught  the  truth.  "  God  have  mercy 
—  mercy !  "  he  exclaimed,  lifting  the  one  hand  and 
groaning  deeply.  That  night  I  sat  with  him  from  twelve 
till  half  past  four,  and  our  hearts  were,  I  felt,  united  most 
closely  in  their  love  and  sorrow.  I  talked  of  her,  of  all 
her  goodness  and  sweetness,  of  his  value  for  her.  He 
pressed  my  hand,  and  the  tears  kept  flowing  from  the 
sightless  eyes.  From  that  moment  his  patience  was  pre- 
ternatural. When  one  thinks  of  his  suffering  condition, 
tied  and  bound  by  infirmity,  one  must  indeed  admire  his 
patience  throughout,  but  before  she  went  he  had,  as  was 
inevitable,  moments  of  irritation  when  we  failed  to  catch 
the  meaning  that  to  him  was  so  obvious,  but  after  her  de- 
parture there  was  never  one.  .  .  .  [From  the  time  of  the 
mother's  burial,  the  father  failed  rapidly.]  My  father 
perfectly  knew  his  own  condition.  During  the  forty-eight 
hours  that  followed  he  helped  us  to  nurse  him.  His  hear- 
ing evidently  continued  acute  almost  to  the  end.  I  thank 
God  that  it  was  so,  and  that  he  could  catch  the  words  of 
our  unutterable  love,  tenderness,  and  gratitude.  I  laid 
his  hand  upon  the  head  of  every  one  of  us,  his  three  chil- 
dren and  his  three  grandchildren,  and  there  it  rested  in  a 
silent  blessing.  We  were  all  with  him  to  the  last.  Till 
I  die  I  shall  remember  the  scene  upon  which  the  dawn 
of  Wednesday  broke.  The  dear  girls,  who  would  not 
leave  him,  had  fallen  asleep,  one  on  each  side  of  him,  their 
young  flushed  faces  resting  against  his  head.  He  lay 
there  asleep  too,  very  often  comfortably  asleep,  looking  so 
grand  and  calm;  such  a  venerable  head,  his  measured 


MOTHER   AND  DAUGHTER.  315 

breathing  not  startling  them.  They  loved  him  so  much 
they  had  no  fear  of  seeing  him  die.  Their  gentle  hero- 
ism and  self-forgetfulness  were  indeed  very  remarkable 
throughout.  These  were  solemn  nights  and  days  —  sol- 
emn, not  terrible.  He  was  spared  all  acute  suffering.  I 
believe  the  heavy  groans  that  burst  from  him  at  times 
were  more  of  grief  for  her  than  because  of  his  own  pain. 
He  was  not  restless.  Throughout  one  felt  his  love  and 
sympathy  and  consideration  for  us  all,  felt  his  conscious- 
ness of  our  most  deep  and  reverent  affection.  There  was 
no  struggle.  The  face  grew  paler  and  paler  —  the  breath- 
ing slower.  It  was  half  past  eleven  when  his  spirit  passed 
away.  He  died  one  week  after  her  —  was  buried  one 
week  after  her  funeral.  It  is  well.  One  would  not  if 
one  could  have  kept  him  here,  blind,  speechless,  widowed. 
But  the  world  seems  a  changed  place  to  us,  and  years  are 
crowded  into  one  little  fortnight.  Nothing  ages  like  the 
loss  of  parents.  We  may  well  thank  God  who  spared 
them  to  us  so  long,  and  has  given  us  such  blessed  recollec- 
tions of  them  both. 

William  Smith 1  to  Rev.  H.  Loomis. 

KESWICK,  Oct.  23,  1863. 

I  take  up  the  pen  instead  of  one  who  uses  it  much  bet- 
ter than  myself,  because  my  dear  Lucy  has  lately  under- 
gone a  very  severe  trial,  and  she  would  rather  that  I  told 
you  of  her  bereavements  than  that  she  should  have  to  retell 
the  sad  history  herself.  ...  I  was  very  much  interested 
in  what  you  told  me  of  the  impression  that  your  great 
civil  war  makes  on  the  North,  or  rather  the  very  little 
impression  it  seems  to  make  on  some  of  the  States  remote 
from  the  scene  of  operations.  We,  in  England,  perhaps 
talk  and  think  as  much  about  this  terrible  war  as  the  in- 
habitants of  Boston  and  New  York.  It  is  still  the  great 

1  Throughout  the  volume,  letters  to  which  the  writer's  name  is  not 
prefixed  are  by  Lucy  Smith. 


316  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

topic  of  the  day  —  or  rather  of  the  age  —  with  us.  Pub- 
lic opinion  is  of  course  divided,  but  I  think  I  am  right  in 
saying  that  the  majority  of  those  who  have  thought  at  all 
upon  the  subject  would  agree  in  these  three  propositions : 
1.  Peace !  Peace  !  Peace  !  2.  If  it  must  be  war,  may  the 
North  conquer  !  and  out  of  this  dreadful  conflict  (whether 
as  purpose  or  mere  result)  may  slavery  be  extinguished  ! 
3.  For  England's  own  conduct,  the  strictest  neutrality. 
This  I  think  would  represent  the  reflective  public  opinion. 
The  popular  sympathy  in  favor  of  the  South  resolves 
itself  into  an  admiration  of  the  pluck,  the  courage,  and 
perseverance  of  the  weaker  of  the  two  combatants.  If  a 
little  boy  fights  a  bigger  boy  than  himself  and  fights  him 
well,  he  will  enlist  the  sympathies  of  all  the  boys  who  are 
looking  on.  It  is  thus  the  South  has  been  undoubtedly 
popular  with  the  multitude.  But  no  reflective  politician 
can  admire  the  sort  of  republic  the  South  desired  to  estab- 
lish. He  could  accept  it,  rather  than  incur  all  the  evils 
and  all  the  dangers  of  this  tremendous  civil  war  —  dangers 
I  mean  to  your  own  political  constitution.  Yet  I  think 
on  this  and  other  subjects  we  argue  too  much  in  the  old 
track.  We  do  not  sufficiently  consider  that  the  education 
and  character  of  the  North  American  is  a  new  element  in 
the  calculation.  A  large  standing  army  may  not  with 
such  a  people  become  the  instrument  of  a  despotism. 
And  as  to  the  financial  part  of  the  question,  you  may 
give  the  commercial  world  of  Europe  a  new  lesson  on  the 
subject  of  currency,  and  show  that  a  return  to  a  metallic 
currency  is  not  necessary.  But,  I  am  wandering,  I  fear, 
amongst  subjects  that  must  be  tedious  to  you,  —  tedious 
at  least  to  Mrs.  Loomis,  whom  I  forget  I  am  also  ad- 
dressing. How  is  dear  little  Daisy  ?  Well,  I  will  hope 
and  believe.  It  is  odd  that  though  fond  of  looking  at 
children  and  listening  to  them  —  at  a  safe  distance  —  I 
do  not  remember  that  any  other  little  Daisy  ever  excited 
in  me  the  wish  to  have  just  such  a  lovable  creature  for 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  317 

one's  own.  I  almost  envy  you  that  sweet  possession.  I 
I  am  charged  with  I  know  not  what  kind  messages 
from  Lucy  —  I  think  I  shall  fail  to  express  them,  so  must 
leave  you  to  put  them  into  words.  This  is  a  very  poor 
substitute  for  her  letter  —  but  let  it  help  to  keep  us  in 
your  memory. 

[Postscript  by  L.  C.  S.]  .  .  .  Her  death  was  sweet  and 
lovely  as  her  life.  I  have  a  precious  past,  but  happiness 
must  henceforth  be  —  I  will  not  say  less,  but  other  than 
it  was.  When  we  lose  —  we  women  at  least  —  our  par- 
ents, our  mother,  the  sense  of  youth  departs.  No  count- 
ing of  my  years,  no  looking-glass,  made  me  realize  how 
far  on  in  life  I  was  while  I  was  her  "  darling  child."  She 
died  in  her  perfection  of  nature,  with  nothing  of  age  but 
its  toleration. 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

The  summer  of  1864  was  memorable  to  us,  as  being 
the  first  we  spent  at  a  house  which  became  almost  a 
home ;  I  refer  to  Newton  Place,  in  Borrowdale.  It  was  a 
house  pleasantly  planned,  with  large  windows,  and  •  rooms 
lofty  in  proportion  to  their  size,  —  a  house  into  which 
breeze  and  sunlight  streamed  in  from  the  four  quarters ; 
with  the  lake  and  Skiddaw  in  front,  on  either  side  bold 
wooded  crags  or  soft  grassy  hills,  and  between  us  and  the 
latter  green  meadows,  with  a  river  gliding  silently  through. 
It  was  a  pleasant  coincidence  that  this  house  had  been 
somewhat  coveted  by  me  eight  years  before,  when  my 
mother  and  I  occupied  it  for  a  few  weeks  ;  and  that  Wil- 
liam, calling  upon  some  friends  who  tenanted  it,  had  said 
to  himself  that  the  drawing-room  would  make  him  a  de- 
lightful study.  And  now  we  shared  it.  We  were  able  to 
secure  it  for  ourselves  from  April  to  December,  and  we 
had  rooms  to  which  we  could  welcome  friends.  But  I 
will  vary  my  chronicle  of  our  outwardly  unbroken  life,  by 


318  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

an  extract  from  his  manuscript  book  of  the  year,  sug- 
gested evidently  by  the  quiet  stream  we  so  often  watched 
together :  — 

THE  RIVER. 

Beauty  here  does  not  owe  much  to  utility.  Not  many  ob- 
jects more  beautiful  or  useful,  but  the  beauty  and  utility  seem 
distinct.  The  river  to  a  very  thirsty  man  has  lost  its  beauty  ; 
and  the  farmer,  who  thinks  more  intensely  than  any  of  us  of 
irrigation,  sees  very  little  of  its  charm  of  beauty.  This  lies  in 
its  motion,  in  its  light,  in  its  endless  variety,  and  that  curve 
which  displays  more  of  these,  and  suggests  life  and  choice  of 
movement. 

All  beautiful  things  grow  more  beautiful  by  looking  long  at 
them.  There  is  a  charm  of  novelty  ;  there  is  also  the  growing 
charm  of  persistency  and  repetition ;  the  eye  feeds.  Indeed, 
dwell  on  any  object,  and  the  sentiment  it  is  calculated  to  in- 
spire augments  so  long  as  attention  is  unfatigued. 

This  gnat  upon  the  surface,  it  does  not  seem  to  me  a  life, 
but  a  fragment  of  life  —  a  joy  —  a  motion,  nothing  more. 

The  river  by  its  inundation  obliterates  itself;  by  overflow- 
ing becomes  mere  marsh.  I  pray  that  my  river  here  will  keep 
its  bounds,  and  not  strive  to  be  a  lake. 

How  endless  are  the  charms  of  a  river!  It  has  ceaseless 
motion,  yet  it  suggests  repose ;  these  blurred  shadows  of  the 
bank  and  trees  are  stationary,  though  the  water  is  ever  flowing. 
Motion  and  shadow ;  life  and  the  dream  of  life ;  and  the 
whence  and  the  whither. 

The  moss  just  under  the  stream  is  kept  moist  by  the  water 
and  yet  shines  in  the  sun.  How  resplendent  a  green !  but 
where  I  see  nothing  but  the  bare  stones,  I  find  the  most  fasci- 
nating spectacle.  There  the  river  of  light  is  flowing.  On  the 
surface  the  water  ripples,  ripples  in  the  light ;  so  light  and 
shadow  course  each  other  in  mimic  flow  along  the  bottom  of  the 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  319 

stream.     I  watch  that  understream  that  is  no  stream,  and  think 
of  what  thought  may  be. 

This  stick  half  in  the  water,  crooked  to  the  eye,  —  I  take  it 
out,  it  is  straight.  Delusion  that  the  child  detects,  and  that  to 
the  man  has  become  an  additional  knowledge  by  his  explanation 
of  it.  But  the  man  himself,  can  he  take  himself  out  of  the  ele- 
ment through  which  he  sees  himself  ? 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Loomis. 

NEWTON  PLACE,  KESWICK,  May  22, 1864. 

.  .  .  Daisy's  photograph  is  thought  most  charming  by 
all  who  do  not  know  Daisy  herself  —  we  consider  that  it 
does  her  scant  justice,  though  the  little  face  looks  very 
sweet,  too,  when  one  frames  it  with  the  lovely  curl,  which 
I  have  put  with  the  vignette  into  a  new  album ;  and  all 
who  turn  over  the  pages  exclaim  when  they  come  to  that 
sweet,  soft,  exquisite  hair.  Thank  you  for  sending  it. 
We  are  so  interested  in  hearing  of  your  work  resumed 
and  of  the  pretty  parsonage.  You  will  not,  I  know,  sus- 
pect me  of  undervaluing  your  letter,  but  I  tell  you  frankly 
I  shall  never  be  satisfied  till  I  get  one  from  dear  Mrs. 
Loomis  too.  Did  you  not  yourself  tell  me  what  charming 
letters  she  wrote,  and  she  has  never  sent  me  one  word ! 
You  can't  get  a  satisfactory  view  of  the  two  lives  which 
are  one  unless  you  have  it  from  the  two  pens,  which  are 
sure  to  mention  different  features  —  at  all  events  to  write 
from  a  slightly  different  point  of  view.  See,  it  is  like  the 
stereoscope  —  you  have  two  pictures  nearly  but  not  quite 
the  same,  and  these  blend  into  one  that  stands  out  with 
a  reality,  a  lifelikeness,  that  even  the  accuracy  of  pho- 
tography cannot  give  to  one  view.  When  William  writes 
to  his  sisters  in  Australia,  I  always  put  in  a  little  bit,  feel- 
ing sure  that  I  shall  tell  something  that  would  not  other- 
wise get  told,  and  yet  which  is  worth  telling.  I  should 
like  to  know  much  more  about  the  house,  about  the  furni- 
ture—  a  thousand  things,  in  short;  and  I  end  where  I 


320  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

began,  I  shall  never  rest  till  there  comes  a  note  from  her 
own  dear  self  as  well  —  not  instead,  mind  that  —  but  as 
well.  .  .  .  May  dear  Mrs.  Loomis  long  have  her  mother 
spared  to  her.  With  regard  to  the  restoration  of  that 
love,  the  "  eye  of  faith  is  dim  "  I  think  most  peculiarly. 
It  was  its  sweet  blindness,  its  tender  unreason,  its  instinc- 
tive fondness,  its  unjustified  faith,  —  it  was  all  that,  that 
cannot  be  in  a  world  of  higher  knowledge,  that  was 
so  intensely  dear.  But  I  am  most  thankful  for  the  past, 
and  I  delight  to  speak  of  my  beloved  parents,  and  to  re- 
call all  their  specialties,  and  to  find  myself  saying  some- 
thing that  they  might  have  said,  feeling  their  nature  in 
mine. 

.  .  .  About  the  end  of  November  we  went  to  Edin« 
burgh  to  pay  a  three  weeks'  visit  to  a  very  dear  Roman 
Catholic  friend  of  ours  [Mrs.  Jones],  at  whose  house  we 
met  some  very  striking  specimens  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
clergy.  All  the  Edinburgh  friends  were  kind  and  affec- 
tionate even  beyond  what  I  expected;  there  was  not  a 
shadow  of  disappointment  in  the  return  amongst  them, 
and  we  left  with  every  tie  drawn  somewhat  closer  than 
before.  .  .  .  This  house  stands  alone,  has  a  nice  little  ap- 
proach lined  with  firs,  but  has  very  little  ground  to  tempt 
one  into  the  expense  that  a  garden  will  bring.  It  is  occu- 
pied by  nice  country  people,  an  excellent  man  who  is 
wrapped  up  in  his  wife,  a  sweet  woman,  with  such  mother- 
love  in  her  eyes ;  any  painter  might  be  glad  to  have  her 
to  help  out  his  idea  of  the  Madonna.  She  has  several 
children,  but  there  is  an  under  story  in  which  they  live, 
and  my  dear  student  hears  them  very  little.  For  me,  I 
like  the  notion  of  the  family  life  down-stairs,  far  better 
than  of  two  maids  who  would  be  always  upon  my  mind,, 
either  as  dull  or  as  seeking  some  dangerous  delassement. 
I  want  to  be  yearly  tenants,  to  have  our  books,  pictures, 
etc.,  and  to  improve  the  aspect  of  some  of  the  rooms  by 
other  furniture.  But  we  must  wait  and  see  how  the  au« 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  321 

tumn  rains  and  floods  affect  us  in  this  wild  Borrowdale 
before  we  decide.  .  .  .  My  dear  one  has  just  finished  an 
article  on  his  friend  Mr.  Lewes's  Aristotle,  and  he  is  now 
busy  with  Victor  Hugo's  rhapsody  of  Shakespeare.  I 
don't  touch  upon  politics,  nor  on  books.  I  am  busy  with 
my  translation,  and  much  writing  leads  to  little  reading. 
In  the  winter  I  had  a  book  of  Mme.  de  Gasparin's,  then 
a  story  of  Swiss  life  from  the  German,  and  now  I  have 
two  volumes  of  Vinet,  one  on  religion,  the  other  on  philos- 
ophy and  literature.  This  is  an  interesting  task.  Here 
we  have  each  a  room  in  which  to  sit  and  work,  and  then 
he  comes  to  challenge  me  to  a  walk  over  these  delightful 
hills  (mossy,  rocky,  heathery),  with  views  of  mountains  — 
now  that  my  eye  has  recovered  from  Switzerland  I  call 
them  mountains  again. 

W.  S.  to  Mr.  Loomis. 

KESWICK,  May  23,  1864. 

I  don't  know  exactly  what  my  dear  wife  has  been  writ- 
ing, but  I  take  it  for  granted  she  has  told  you  all  personal 
news  and  of  our  whereabouts  and  the  like.  And  no  doubt 
she  has  thanked  you  for  the  photograph  of  Daisy,  and  the 
lock  of  brightest,  softest  hair  that  accompanied  it.  But 
as  I  take  half  those  to  myself,  and  am  especially  jealous 
of  the  hair,  I  must  repeat  my  own  thanks.  I  have  to 
thank  you  too  for  a  graver  kindness,  though  not  a  more 
pleasing  one  —  the  numbers  of  the  "  New  Englander  " 
that  contained  the  reviews  of  "  Thorndale  "  and  "  Graven- 
hurst."  1  That  the  reviewer  should  have  objections  to 
make,  and  his  own  points  of  view  to  put  forth,  is  always 
expected,  but  I  did  not  expect  so  kind  and  generous  a 
measure  of  praise,  and  coming  across  the  water  it  was  to 
me  peculiarly  grateful.  I  hope  by  and  by  when  my  hands 
are  free  from  work  for  the  periodical  press  to  put  out 
some  philosophical  papers,  chiefly  on  certain  metaphysical 
1  By  Professor  Noah  Porter. 


322  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

problems,  on  which  I  wish  to  say  a  word,  though  certainly 
to  very  little  purpose.  I  read  with  interest  the  extract 
you  sent  me  from  one  of  your  sermons,  and  liked  the  tone 
of  it  very  much.  It  was  extremely  pleasant  to  hear  that 
you  were  settled,  for  some  time  at  least,  in  a  parish,  and 
to  read  the  account  of  your  housing  and  furnishing  your- 
selves. We  still  dream  from  time  to  time  of  settling 
down  in  some  cottage  of  our  own,  but  I  sometimes  doubt 
whether  the  dream  will  ever  be  realized.  We  like  our 
mountains  too  much  to  settle  in  the  plains,  and  yet  the 
region  of  our  lakes  and  mountains  is  so  visited  by  rains 
that  it  hardly  seems  wise  to  remain  in  it  for  the  winter. 
From  the  first  of  May  to  the  end  of  October  is  generally 
our  time  for  the  Lakes,  and  perhaps  quite  enough. 

I  read  with  unabated  interest  all  accounts  from  your 
country.  What  a  power  has  democracy  put  forth !  I 
watch  with  as  much  anxiety  for  the  issue  of  this  tremen- 
dous conflict  as  when  the  war  first  broke  out.  It  is  in  vain 
that  Poland  and  Denmark  cross  my  path  and  would  carry 
off  my  attention.  I  never  had  any  faith  in  Poland,  and 
Denmark  will  do  very  well  without  the  Duchies,  or  such 
part  of  them  as  are  German  and  not  Danish.  But  with 
you  new  nations  are  in  the  making,  and  perhaps  forms  of 
government  are  being  decided  on  for  centuries.  I  hope 
you  do  not  personally  suffer  from  the  state  of  your  cur- 
rency. I  suppose  that  where  a  nominal  sum  had  been 
fixed  for  the  support  of  a  church  at  the  time  when  pay- 
ments were  made  in  gold,  there  is  always  now  an  advance 
in  the  nominal  sum  to  make  up  for  the  depreciation  in  the 
currency.  Does  it  not  seem  at  present  that  of  the  two 
objects  of  the  war  the  abolition  of  slavery  is  the  one  most 
likely  to  be  accomplished  ?  .  .  .  I  was  glad  to  hear  that 
amongst  the  furniture  of  the  new  parsonage  there  was  so 
good  a  piano.  I  envy  you  the  privilege  of  sitting  over 
your  desk  and  hearing  the  sonatas  of  Beethoven.  We, 
alas,  often  say  that  we  have  not  a  single  accomplishment 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  323 

between  us.  I  think  if  we  settled  I  would  invest  the  price 
of  a  piano  in  a  multitude  of  musical  boxes,  and  by  a  tem- 
perate and  judicious  use  of  them,  and  changing  them  not 
too  often,  we  might  make  them  last  a  long  time. 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

NEWTON  PLACE,  October  6,  1864. 

.  .  .  Ah,  how  harsh  and  common  a  nature  that  is  — 
too  common  indeed  —  that  chafes  at  any  great  love  borne 
by  any  for  any  —  husband,  child,  friend,  dog.  How  sel- 
dom it  is  that  an  intense  affection  fails  to  raise  up  enmity 
against  both  lover  and  loved.  But  it  is  an  ugly  trait.  We 
should  be  ready  to  lend  ourselves  to  all  genuine  enthusi- 
asm, to  be  glad  any  has  the  solace  of  unqualifiedly  admir- 
ing where  their  hearts  are  fixed,  and  to  believe  in  the  good 
they  see.  But  always  it  is  an  offence  to  uncultivated 
natures  that  any  one  should  have  an  intense  feeling,  they 

for  their  part  having  none.     Miss 's  face  took  on  a 

quite  wicked  look  in  saying  how  much  her  lodgers  made 
of  the  dog.  Well,  dear,  I  have  run  on  long  upon  this, 
but  I  have  been  led  in  this  direction  of  thought  more  par- 
ticularly by  the  praises  of  a  doting  sister  —  for  a  moment 
there  rose  in  my  mind  just  that  hideous  antagonism  which 
prompts  the  feeling  that  the  one  so  praised  is  overrated. 
It  is  nothing  but  one's  own  vanity  and  self-love,  which 
would  fill  creation  if  it  might.  Indeed,  it  did  not  last 
more  than  a  moment  before  I  saw  what  it  was,  but  many 
encourage  it  under  the  idea  that  it  is  their  sense  of  justice 
which  is  offended. 


CHAPTER  XXIL 

ABROAD  AND  AT   HOME. 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

THE  winter  of  1864-65  was  outwardly  more  varied  than 
was  usual  with  us.  It  included  a  stay  of  two  months  at 
Llandudno,  in  North  Wales,  a  short  visit  to  Bath,  where 
my  husband  had  an  old  and  intimate  friend  and  correspond- 
ent, and  several  weeks  at  Brighton  ;  and  then,  after  a  fort- 
night in  London,  we  set  out  early  in  May  for  Switzerland, 
and  saw  Lucerne  and  enchanting  Engelberg  in  their  fresh 
beauty,  and  had  pensions  to  ourselves.  Our  other  happy 
resting-places  were  Grindelwald,  Unterseen,  Champe*ry, 
Bex,  La  Comballaz.  One  week  too  was  given  to  Chamou- 
nix,  for  which  William  had  an  especial  affection.  His  deep- 
est impressions  of  sublimity  had  been  received  there  twenty 
years  before  and  renewed  in  1862  ;  his  constant  nature 
preferred  revisiting  it  to  exploring  new  scenes.  Never 
shall  I  forget  his  lying  on  the  ground  on  our  return  from 
the  Chapeau  one  glorious  August  day,  gazing  long  and 
silently,  absorbed  in  wonder  and  worship,  at  what  he  had 
called  "  the  sculpture  of  landscape,"  —  "  the  great  hills 
built  up,  from  their  green  base  to  their  snowy  summits, 
with  rock,  and  glacier,  and  pine  forests," —  "  leading  be- 
yond this  earth."  Then  suddenly  starting  from  his  trance 
of  rapture  he  said,  "  Now  I  don't  want  to  see  that  again  ! " 
He  had  indeed  seen  it  this  last  time  in  fullest  perfection. 

We  spent  five  months  in  Switzerland.  They  were 
fraught  with  delight ;  and  yet  there  were  days  —  days  of 
reaction  after  vivid  enjoyment  —  when  I  could  plainly  see 


ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME.  325 

that  my  husband  missed  the  steady  occupation,  the  studi- 
ous routine,  of  our  English  summers.  Had  his  life  been 
prolonged,  I  do  not  think  we  should  ever  have  become 
tourists  again.  During  the  ensuing  years,  remembering 
his  own  delight  in  Italy,  and  kindly  anxious  to  give  me 
every  possible  pleasure,  he  would  often  ask  me  whether  I 
really  wished  very  much  to  go  there  ;  because,  if  so,  the 
effort  would  be  made.  But  I  had  always  a  doubt  as  to 
such  a  journey  being  the  best  thing  for  him.  I  dared  not 
wish  it. 

I  will  transcribe  a  few  of  the  "  Scraps  of  Verse  from  a 
Tourist's  Note-book,"  which  were  written  during  our  sec- 
ond Swiss  summer,  and  published  in  the  magazine :  — 

The  lightest,  brightest  cloud  that  floats 

In  the  azure  can  but  throw 
Some  kind  of  shadow,  dark  or  faint. 

On  whatever  lies  below. 

For  me,  thank  God  !  although  I  lowly  lie, 
I  lie  where  earth  looks  straightway  to  the  sky  ; 
On  me,  remote  alike  from  king  and  clown, 
No  fellow-atom  flings  his  shadow  down. 

No  shadow  ?  —  none  ?  —  Think,  look  again  I 
An  hour  ago  that  huge  and  rocky  hill 

Stood  bare,  unsightly  ;  all  in  vain 
Did  mid-day  light  each  rent  and  chasm  fill. 
It  waited  for  the  cloud.     The  shadow  came, 
Rested  or  moved  upon  its  brow 
And,  lo  !  it  softens  into  beauty  now  — 
Blooms  like  a  flower.     With  us  't  is  much  the  same,  — 
From  man  to  man  as  the  deep  shadows  roll, 
Breaks  forth  the  beauty  of  the  human  soul. 

High  rise  the  mountains,  higher  rise 
The  clouds  ;  the  mimic  mountain  still, 
The  cloud,  the  cloud,  say  what  we  will, 

Keeps  full  possession  of  our  skies. 
Let  cloud  be  cloud,  my  friend  ;  we  know  the  wind 

Shapes  and  re-shapes,  and  floats  the  glory  on  ; 


326  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

Glory  or  gloom  it  floats,  but  leaves  behind 

The  stable  mountain,  open  to  the  sun. 
Let  cloud  be  cloud  —  unreal  as  the  space 

It  traverses  ;  earth  can  be  earth,  yet  rise 
Into  the  region  of  God's  dwelling-place, 

If  light  and  love  are  what  we  call  his  skies. 

The  stream  flows  on,  it  wearies  never, 

Whilst  I,  who  do  but  watch  its  flow, 
I  weary  oft.  '  Ah,  not  forever  ! 

Soon  other  eyes '  —  I  know,  I  know, 
I  too  repeat  my  *  Not  forever,' 

And  waking  to  that  thought  I  start, 

And  find  my  weariness  depart. 

I  pluck  the  flower,  one  moment  to  behold 
Its  treasury  of  purple  and  of  gold  ; 
The  blossom,  and  a  nest  of  buds  around, 
Ruthless  I  pluck,  and  fling  them  on  the  ground 

Plucked  because  fair,  then  flung  to  death  away  ! 
I  might  have  stooped  and  looked,  and  had  a  blameless  joy. 
»   Nature's  great  prodigality,  you  say 

E'en  for  man's  wantonness  provides. 

It  may  be  so,  but  still  with  me  abides 

A  sense  of  shame  that  I  could  so  destroy. 

The  stream  to  the  tree  —  I  shine,  you  shade, 
And  so  the  beauty  of  the  world  is  made. 

Our  second  Swiss  tour,  like  our  first,  was  succeeded  by 
several  months  of  exclusively  tete-a-tete  life  at  Weston- 
super-Mare,  and  I  was  soon  happily  convinced  that  the 
spell  of  the  desk  had  in  no  way  been  weakened  by  our 
wanderings.  William  wrote  a  long  "  Review  of  J.  S. 
Mill's  Examination  of  Sir  William  Hamilton's  Philoso- 
phy," confining  himself  chiefly  to  that  "  central  position 
in  which  the  great  question  is  discussed  of  the  nature  and 
origin  of  our  knowledge  of  the  external  world."  To  those 
who  know  his  writings  it  is  needless  to  indicate  the  side 
he  took  in  the  controversy.  He  u  selected  to  be  totally 
wrong"  (according  to  Mr.  Mill)  "with  Sir  William 


ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME.  327 

Hamilton,  rather  than  exchange  our  real  world  of  matter 
and  motion,  of  substance  and  force,  for  permanent  possi- 
bilities of  sensation  attached  to  nothing  at  all  —  for  mere 
thoughts  of  sensations,  —  a  dreary  and  bewildering  ideal- 
ism." My  husband's  mind  was  at  this  time  constantly  en- 
gaged with  the  problems  the  book  in  question  treats  of ; 
but  a  remark  he  made  with  regard  to  Sir  W.  Hamilton  — 
"  He  loved  thinking  over  the  book  better  than  thinking 
over  the  pen  "  —  was  just  then  applicable  to  himself.  The 
manuscript  book  grew  full,  but  during  our  stay  at  Wes- 
ton-super-Mare  nothing  else  was  written. 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

BRISTOL,  Feb.  9,  1865. 
.  .  .  There  is  a  good  deal  here  of  the  comfort  of  wealth, 

and  Mr.  G lives  within  his  means,  so  that  altogether 

it  seems  a  happy  home.  We  shall  not  stay  long  enough 
to  get  demoralized  by  the  perfection  of  a  tapestried  bed- 
room, and  a  bed  which  it  is  a  regret  to  get  out  of,  and  very 
good  eating.  We  both  feel  that  nothing  equals  our  own 
life,  but  I  think  one  might  soon  get  into  a  habit  of  mind 
and  body  which  would  make  lodgings  seem  dingy  things. 
But  then  the  joy  of  being  together  immeasurably  out- 
weighs all  mere  comforts,  and  here  I  see  nothing  of  Wil- 
liam, the  gentlemen  sit  so  long  after  dinner,  and  in  the 
morning  are  much  in  the  drawing-room.  No  rich  peo- 
ple can  be  to  each  other  quite  all  we  are,  because  of  the 
different  rooms  and  the  guests  and  the  ways  altogether ; 
and  oh,  how  from  my  heart  of  hearts  I  thank  Heaven  that 
my  lot  has  fallen  just  how  and  where  it  has !  —  I  brought 
all  my  smartness  here  in  a  bonnet-box,  and  assure  you 
that  my  moire  and  mantilla,  etc.,  make  me  quite  as  smart 
as  beseems  my  years.  That  dear  Lloyd  made  my  old 
point  up  into  a  lovely  fall,  and  I  consider  that  I  keep  up 
appearances  wonderfully  when  one  thinks  that  all  my 
stores  are  comprised  within  the  limits  of  a  bonnet-box. 


328  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

I  am  amused  with  the  things  that  get  said  now  and  then, 

showing  that  Mr.  G evidently  does  not  guess  me  so 

far  on  in  the  fifth  decade,  or  I  suspect  in  it  at  all !     The 
young  girls  have  sharper  eyes,  no  doubt. 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Loomis. 

BRIGHTON,  March  18, 1865. 

When  your  charming  letters  came  to  us,  they  gave  us 
quite  a  glow  of  sympathetic  delight,  and  now  I  have  just 
been  re-reading  them  and  renewing  the  impression.  Never 
did  any  two  lives  —  or  rather  one  life,  that  is  the  beauty 
of  it  —  strike  me  as  being  more  complete,  healthy,  and 
every  way  delicious.  We  warmly  congratulate  you  on  the 
safe  and  happy  arrival  of  the  little  Kuth  —  we  find  it  dif- 
ficult to  believe  that  she  can  ever  be  quite  so  bewitching  as 
little  Daisy,  our  ideal  of  sweet  childhood,  but  we  admit 
that  the  description  of  her  is  a  most  attractive  one.  And 
how  entirely,  too,  we  enter  into  the  delights  of  the  home, 
with  the  garden  to  work  in  and  watch.  I  don't  know  that 
there  is  any  surer  receipt  for  permanent  cheerfulness  than 
the  interests  and  even  the  anxieties  connected  with  what 
one  has  sown,  or  transplanted,  or  pruned,  or  trained.  Then 
in  addition  to  all,  or  rather  as  foundation  to  all,  as  that  to 
which  all  other  things  are  added,  there  is  your  work,  your 
consciousness  of  being  of  use  !  Yes,  indeed,  it  does  one's 
heart  good  to  think  of  you  both.  .  .  .  How  kind  of  you 
to  send  me  not  only  the  photograph  of  Holmes  but  that 
of  Emerson.  They  both  gave  great  pleasure,  for  I  sent 
the  one  of  Holmes  to  an  acquaintance  who  had  long 
wished  for  it,  admiring  his  writings  as  she  seldom  admires 
anything,  and  Emerson's  I  gave  to  a  beloved  Scotch  friend 
of  mine,  a  Mrs.  Stirling,  who  saw  a  great  deal  of  him 
when  he  was  in  Edinburgh  some  fifteen  years  ago,  and 
who  felt  particularly  interested  in  tracing  the  resemblance 
and  the  difference  between  his  face  now  and  then.  .  .  . 
For  the  last  fortnight  we  have  been  in  this  glaring,  star- 


ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME.  329 

ing  Babylon  that  I  never  can  like  —  but  then  place  is  of 
very  little  consequence  to  me  so  only  William  be  well. 
Indeed  he  has  been  very  well,  thank  God  —  has  not  had  a 
cold  all  through  this  unusually  severe  winter,  and  I  think 
I  give  a  false  impression  of  him  by  my  tone  about  him  in 
this  particular,  for  he  never  alludes  to  health  and  never 
complains.  Only  I  always  feel  that  he  is  fragile,  and 
strangers  in  general  by  way  of  a  pleasant  opening  remark 
observe  to  me  that  he  looks  delicate !  !  We  have  bright- 
looking,  cheery  rooms.  Beside  William's  desk  (he  is  out 
just  now)  lies  "  The  Secret  of  Hegel,"  which  he  is  reading 
with  interest  evidently,  for  the  book  is  often  dropped  and 
the  dark  eyes  are  fixed  and  see  nothing  in  the  room.  Oh, 
God  grant  that  we  may  know  the  truth  !  I  have  just  been 
reading  a  novel  which  has  made  a  deep  impression  upon 
my  mind ;  the  writer  seems  so  penetrated  with  the  love  of 
God,  raised  into  a  region  where  all  fear  is  cast  out  by  per- 
fect trust.  I  hope  the  author  has  not  written  thus  "  from 
without,"  merely  as  the  artist ;  I  do  not  think  he  can,  or 
it  would  not  thus  have  gone  to  the  heart  of  another. 
There  is  a  good  deal  about  mesmerism,  etc.,  which  to  me 
was  unintelligible,  or  which  I  did  not  try  to  understand, 
but  the  book  has,  I  think,  passages  of  great  beauty.  It  is 
"David  Elginbrod,"  by  George  Macdonald.  William 
was  writing  a  great  deal  this  summer,  but  nothing  was 
completed,  or  nearly  so  —  only  thinking  out.  He  dashed 
off  too  some  articles  for  "  Blackwood,"  on  Lewes's  "  Aris- 
totle," and  Max  Miiller's  second  volume,  and  I  think  a 
very  pleasant  paper  on  Victor  Hugo's  "  Shakespeare," 
and  one  in  this  March  number  on  Blake,  the  half-crazy 
artist,  who  was  a  grand  creature  too,  in  some  ways,  espe- 
cially in  his  successful  way  of  grasping  the  nettle,  poverty. 
Victor  Hugo  I  feel  more  enthusiastic  about  than  ever,  now 
that  I  know  the  active  benevolence  of  his  life.  He  de- 
votes himself  to  the  rescue  of  forty  of  the  poorest  children 
near  him  in  Guernsey.  Some  French  physiologist  having 


330  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

established  the  fact  that  a  good  dinner  once  a  month  will 
tell  most  favorably  upon  children  habitually  under-fed,  he 
gives  these  forty  little  ones  an  excellent  dinner  and  a  glass 
of  good  wine  once  a  fortnight ;  and  they  are  waited  on  by 
Mme.  Hugo  and  her  daughter  (a  daughter-in-law),  their 
going  to  school  is  insisted  upon,  and  on  Christmas  day 
they  were  all  gathered  to  a  cha,rmmg  fete,  from  which  they 
went  away  laden  with  toys  as  well  as  good  clothing,  etc. ; 
for  he  seems  determined  to  brighten  their  lot  with  all 
childhood's  innocent  pleasures  as  well  as  to  provide  for 
their  necessities.  It  is  charming  to  know  that  practice 
keeps  pace  with  theory  in  this  glowing  advocate  of  all  the 
world's  " Miserdbles" 

(Postscript  by  W.  S.)  How  interested  we  both  were 
in  the  perusal  of  your  letter  I  cannot  say ;  and  though  I 
valued  highly  the  few  intimations  you  gave  us  of  the  state 
of  political  opinion  in  your  country,  I  valued  still  more 
highly  your  account  of  the  home  and  of  the  daily  life. 
How  delightful  the  intermixture  seemed  to  me  of  the  gar- 
den and  the  family  with  the  study  and  the  sermon-writing. 
We  also  passed  a  most  fortunate  summer  in  1864.  The 
weather,  for  our  climate,  was  remarkably  fine,  and  we  had 
secured  a  small  house  in  the  most  beautiful  part  of  our 
Lake  district.  (Generally  we  are  compelled  to  be  content 
with  a  lodging.)  I  used  often  to  say,  This  is  ideal,  this 
is  our  climax,  —  and  as  plants  that  have  once  blossomed 
commence  thereafter  to  wither  and  decay,  we  must  expect 
(may  it  be  slowly  !)  to  descend  henceforth  from  our  palmy 
state.  Not  that  the  outside  world  would  see  anything 
marvellous  in  our  position,  but  we  were  both  well,  both 
occupied,  we  had  a  paradise  to  walk  out  in,  and  were  not 
without  friends  —  for  short  intervals  —  to  visit  us.  But 
the  elements  of  our  content  were  not  so  numerous  as 
yours,  and  you,  with  Daisy  and  Alice  about  you,  would 
have  thought  our  home  had  a  very  great  blank.  This 
summer  we  think  of  Switzerland,  but  the  grander  scenery 


ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME.  331 

(except  that  it  stores  the  memory)  is  dearly  purchased  by 
the  worry,  the  idleness,  the  dissipation  of  mind  that  at- 
tends on  travelling.  But  my  Lucy  will  have  told  you  all 
there  is  to  tell,  whether  of  our  past  or  future  —  only  I 
could  not  but  add  a  word. 

We  here  —  if  I  may  judge  of  others  by  myself  —  do 
not  abate  the  least  in  the  intense  interest  we  take  in  your 
great  civil  war.  The  interest  indeed  increases,  for  it 
seems  as  if  this  next  summer  would  see  the  battle  fought 
out  —  the  North  triumphant  and  slavery  extinguished. 
And  then,  if  peace  and  union  are  again  established,  what 
a  note  of  congratulation  there  will  be.  Pray  Heaven  that 
North  and  South  will  not  celebrate  and  cement  their  union 
by  a  war  with  England  or  France  I  I  do  not  fear  it  my- 
self —  but  I  have  been  always  and  long  ago  persuaded 
that  it  would  be  for  the  benefit  both  of  Canada  and  Eng- 
land that  the  tie  between  them  should  be  severed.  We 
cannot  defend  Canada,  but  our  connection  with  it  may  be 
the  very  cause  that  brings  war  down  upon  it.  It  is 
plainly  for  the  interest  of  Canada  to  be  separate,  and  I 
am  sure  it  is  for  the  interest  of  England.  It  is  only 
pride  that  stands  in  the  way.  Do  not  let  it  be  long  be- 
fore we  hear  from  you  again.  I  wish  I  could  send  you  in 
return  something  worth  sending.  Give  my  sincere  re- 
membrances to  Mrs.  Loomis,  and  a  kiss  to  Daisy. 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

HOTEL  BEAU-SITE, 
UNTERSEEN,  SWITZERLAND,  Sept.  21,  1865. 

...  I  often  think  it  is  wonderful  how  far  a  small  in- 
come may  go  in  Switzerland,  but  then  I  should  not  like 
expatriation,  and  begin  to  feel  that  a  cosy  English  lodg- 
ing, with  a  fire  and  the  "  Times,"  will  be  charming  for 
winter.  But  take  the  case  of  a  single  woman,  with  80 
or  90  pounds  a  year.  In  England  she  must  have  small 
rooms  and  simple  meals.  But  here  for  instance  is  a 


332  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

charming  bed-room  with  a  matchless  view  —  I  must  tell 
you  what  I  see  the  first  thing  from  my  pillow.  First,  the 
picturesque  rough  roof  of  an  old  chalet ;  behind  it  a  yel- 
low tree  backed  by  a  freshly  green  clump ;  then  a  wooded 
hill  bright  with  autumn  tints  ;  then  a  fir-covered  one,  blue 
in  the  distance ;  then  a  grand,  boldly  shaped  mountain, 
down  which  the  sun  paints  streaks  of  gold  upon  the  greens 
and  purples ;  then  over  all  the  whole  of  the  Jungfrau  — 
supreme,  solemn,  coldly  white,  majestic,  calm  —  waiting 
for  the  sun  to  change  her  into  a  soft  aerial  loveliness,  and 
to  light  up  the  Silberhorn  into  dazzling  brightness.  All 
this  view  I  see  without  rising  from  the  best  of  spring- 
beds  !  Then  —  to  go  on  with  the  comforts  to  be  had  here 
for  five  francs  a  day  —  one's  good  breakfast  of  coft'ee, 
rolls,  and  honey,  at  any  hour  one  likes  (we  are  hardly 
ever  later  than  eight)  ;  dinner  at  two  or  at  six,  at  will, 
and  tea ;  a  pretty  new  salon  full  of  lamps  and  luxurious 
sofas,  with  a  piano  —  and  all  this  for  about  75  pounds  a 
year !  And  there  are  much  cheaper  pensions  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Geneva.  I  often  amuse  myself  with 
planning  Swiss  tours  for  you  three  wonderful  walkers, 
and  I  dare  say  you  will  accomplish  one  before  long. 
Meantime  nothing  can  be  more  charming  than  Arran, 
and  all  that  purple  pomp  of  heather  that  makes  Scotland 
so  beautiful  in  autumn.  I  must  tell  you  that  Comballaz 
turned  out  almost  the  most  charming  place  we  had  been 
at.  The  inn  stands  alone,  there  is  no  village  near,  only 
chalets  dotted  about  in  all  directions.  We  looked  out 
upon  a  hay-field  —  the  second  hay  harvest  was  perfuming 
the  air  during  the  fortnight  we  spent  there  —  sloping 
steeply  down  to  a  fir-lined  ravine  through  which  ran  a 
merry  little  brook.  The  fir  woods  are  the  finest  we  have 
seen,  but  it  is  the  walks  that  are  so  enchanting  —  not  road 
walks,  but  green  paths  through  fields  and  woods  in  every 
direction.  1  gave  myself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  lovely 
spot  —  I  did  nothing  —  never  put  pen  to  paper.  We  had 


ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME.  333 

an  exquisite  moon  while  there,  and  were  really  out  morn- 
ing, noon,  and  night.  On  the  fourth,  the  most  glorious  of 
days,  we  set  off  early,  I  on  a  nice  horse,  William  walking, 
to  the  Dent  de  Champre",  the  mountain  that  rises  just  op- 
posite Comballaz.  The  way  thither  through  a  steep  wood 
was  very  charming,  and  we  came  in  about  two  hours  and 
a  half  to  the  loveliest  of  little  lakes,  with  water  clear  and 
blue  as  that  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva  —  only  one  very  low, 
long  chalet,  half -sunk  in  monk's-hood  and  fern,  with  rocks 
all  around  throwing  their  shadows  upon  the  calm  surface. 
There  we  left  the  horse,  and  I  took  to  my  feet,  and  in 
about  an  hour  or  so  we  were  at  the  summit,  and  the  view 
took  away  my  breath.  The  Dent  de  Champre  is  very 
steep  on  that  side,  and  as  we  lay  on  the  grass  top  it 
shelved  away  rapidly  from  beneath  us,  so  that  we  had  for 
foreground  the  Dent  de in  the  next  valley,  a  moun- 
tain purple  and  gold  with  heath  and  faded  fern,  with  fir 
forests  at  its  base.  Then  for  the  next  distance  the  Dent 
du  Midi,  facing  the  Dent  de  Morcles,  very  grand  in  them- 
selves, and  looking  quite  their  9  and  10,000  feet,  but  having 
a  clear  space  between  them  for  Mont  Blanc,  who  towered, 
soared,  one  pure  crystal,  into  a  soft  blue  sky,  with  light 
streaky  white  clouds  above,  but  not  one  dimmed  the  perfect 
outline.  How  vast,  how  immensely  high,  the  monarch 
of  mountains  looked,  it  is  vain  to  try  to  tell.  There 
were  other  beautiful  things,  —  the  whole  Rhone  valley, 
the  Lake  of  Geneva,  the  glittering  summit  of  Monte  Rosa, 
and  hints  of  the  Oberland  —  but  Mont  Blanc  filled  our 
souls.  We  both  felt  that  we  had  never  seen  a  more  per- 
fect, if  so  perfect  a  picture.  We  were  out  about  eight 
hours,  William  walking  the  whole  way  without  any  fa- 
tigue, which  makes  me  so  happy !  .  .  .  The  whole  party 
at  Comballaz  was  English,  but  we  were  as  usual  unso- 
ciable. I  often  think  many  might  like  to  know  the  author 
of  "  Thorndale  "  —  but  how  discover  him  in  that  quiet, 
silent  man,  in  the  very  shabbiest  coat  that  ever  was  seen ! 


334  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

You  may  fancy  what  we  have  got  to  in  the  way  of  shab- 
biness  —  my  hat  for  instance  worn  constantly  for  four 
months,  for  I  brought  no  bonnet.  .  .  .  The  next  evening 
at  our  first  sight  of  the  Jungf  rau,  having  that  vision  of 
Mont  Blanc  in  our  mind's  eye,  we  pronounced  her  small, 
and  thought  we  had  been  foolish  to  leave  sweet  La  Com- 
ballaz.  However,  there  I  could  not  sit  in-doors;  while 
here  for  the  first  week  I  worked  away  steadily  at  a  trans- 
lation Mr.  Strahan  wishes  for  the  beginning  of  Novem- 
ber. I  walked  alone  on  the  15th,  with  precious,  precious 
mother  in  my  heart,  as  God  knows  she  is  always.  She 
would  have  been  eighty.  .  .  .  The  last  week  we  had  three 
charming  excursions,  alternating  with  my  days  of  trans- 
lation. Yesterday's  was  as  pleasant  a  one  as  we  have 
had.  We  set  off  at  half  past  eight  in  a  nice  little  ein- 
spanner  to  Grindelwald.  The  beauty  of  that  drive  is 
unspeakable  —  as  an  approach  to  Grindelwald  it  exceeds 
the  Wengern  Alp.  We  spent  two  hours  or  more  prowl- 
ing about  the  lower  glacier,  and  sitting  about.  As  we 
came  back,  the  old  man  with  the  marmot  waylaid  us  — 
but  it  was  not  the  old  marmot,  but  a  beautiful  young  one, 
a  creature  for  which  I  was  quite  distracted  with  admiring 
fondness.  The  poor  old  man,  however,  mourns  his  old 
friend,  who  he  said  "  entendait  la  langue  franqaise"  and 
had  been  with  him  ten  years.  Poor  old  man  —  he  broke 
his  arm,  went  to  a  hospice,  and  while  he  was  there  "  they 
let  the  poor  beast  die."  Fancy  what  a  pang  on  his  re- 
turn! I  wish  dear  Richard  could  have  seen  this  sleek 
darling  sit  up  and  eat  a  bit  of  roll  that  we  gave  it,  with 
hands  like  an  immense  squirrel.  I  kissed  its  tail  while 
so  engaged  —  how  muffly  it  was  !  —  but  its  temper  was 
allowed  to  be  uncertain,  not  like  "  ma  vielle  bete.'''  The 
poor  old  man  blessed  us  for  a  half  franc  in  a  most  touch- 
ing way.  How  charming  to  have  been  rich  enough  to 
surprise  him  with  a  five-franc  piece  instead  of  a  trumpery 
fifty  centimes !  I  could  be,  I  may  say,  wrapped  up  in 
a  marmot ! 


ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME.  335 

To  Mrs.  Cotton. 

CHAMPEBY,  1865. 

In  short,  every  one  went  off,  and  at  last  we  were  the 
only  left,  we  and  a  Dutch  family  —  a  widowed  sister  and 
two  young  girls,  and  an  excellent  and  (I  thought)  delight- 
ful brother,  a  Mr.  Van  de  W ;  a  missionary  spirit, 

intent  on  doing  good  —  the  highest  good  if  possible,  but 
the  very  least  also.  A  man  more  kindly  and  helpful,  as 
well  as  earnest  and  spiritual,  I  have  not  seen.  Whether 
you  shared  his  views  or  not,  you  must  respect  and  love 
him.  The  sister  was  a  good  woman  too.  The  brother 
had  no  egotism.  His  motto  might  have  been  "  Not  I, 
but "  —  one  far  higher.  I  don't  know  why  I  tell  you  of 
them,  except  that  we  made  so  few  acquaintances.  We 
are  not  people  who  get  on  in  pensions  —  shy,  silent,  rather 
shabby-looking.  I  often  thought  to  myself  that  many  a 
one  might  have  liked  a  chat  with  William  if  they  had 
known  how  rich  a  mind  was  within  their  reach  ;  but  what 
people  see  is  charm  and  geniality  of  manner  —  that  de- 
lectable "  confidence  to  please  "  which  is  a  fairy  gift,  and 
that  fairy  was  at  neither  of  our  cradles. 

[From  Bex.]  This  time  there  happened  to  be  a  charm- 
ing Genevese  there,  Rodolph  Key,  who  will  be  better 
known  I  am  sure  by  and  by  (if  he  lives  a  little  longer) 
as  a  writer  of  history  and  a  wonderfully  clear  thinker. 
He  seemed  intimate  with  most  of  the  first  intellects  of 
France,  and  he  was  just  the  sort  of  man  to  get  intimate 
with.  I  am  sure  people  love  him.  In  character  of  mind 
as  well  as  way  of  thought  he  seemed  to  me  very  like  my 
own  dear  one,  and  like  him  he  was  very  playful,  simple, 
and  childlike ;  but  he  was  easier  to  become  acquainted 
with,  in  that  he  would  talk  of  himself  —  not  the  least 
egotistically,  but  openly  and  readily,  whereas  William 
shuns  himself  and  his  own  writings  irresistibly.  They 
were  both  sorry  they  could  not  get  further  over  the  bar- 


336  WILLIAM   AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

rier  of  a  foreign  language.  I  don't  know  when  I  have 
seen  so  charming  a  being  as  this  M.  Rey  —  with  a  great 
deal  of  the  "  beauty  of  ugliness  "  which  is  by  no  means 
limited  to  Skye  terriers  !  He  offered  to  give  us  his  book 
of  the  Renaissance  Politique  of  Italy,  where  he  has  lived 
a  good  deal,  and  I  said  No,  because  I  thought  we  were 
going  on  to  Vevay  where  it  could  be  got ;  and  we  did  not 
go,  and  I've  regretted  the  lost  chance  ever  since.  His 
next  work  is  to  be  on  the  Social  Conditions  of  France,  and 
if  I  could  translate  it,  what  pleasant  work  it  would  be. 

To  Mrs.  Cotton. 

Girlhood  is  not  a  happy  time,  I  am  quite  sure  of  it, 
though  it 's  so  happy-looking.  If  we  could  put  old  heads 
on  young  shoulders,  and  look  as  we  used,  and  feel  as  we 
do  —  I  think  that  would  be  quite  the  prime  of  life.  In- 
deed, in  all  respects  but  just  to  look  at  I  consider  that 
middle  age  is  the  prime  of  life.  .  .  I  Ve  been  busy,  and 
still  am,  correcting  the  proofs  of  two  interesting  volumes 
of  Vinet's  that  I  've  translated.  Ah,  my  darling,  you  in 
your  generous  affection,  that  gilds  its  objects  always  as 
the  light  and  warmth  of  fine  natures  will  —  you  thought  I 
might  write  something  original,  and  you  have,  I  know,  felt 
a  little  disappointed  in  me.  But  though  I  have  not  power, 
I  have  not  ambition  either,  and  so  am  quite  content,  and 
so  thankful  to  have  this  pleasant  and  paying  occupation. 
I  've  something  to  do  for  this  summer,  and  my  penny-a-lin- 
ing  is  a  great  joy  to  me,  but  dreadfully  against  letter-writ- 
ing. William  is  always  occupied  and  always  cheerful,  and 
is  recreating  himself  with  a  large  book  on  Hegelian  philo- 
sophy, not  one  sentence  of  which  appears  to  me  intelligible. 

To  Mrs.  Cotton. 

UNTERSEEN,  1865. 

I  found  quantities  of  letters  —  joy  and  sorrow  —  the 
shot  silk  of  life.  Oh,  my  darling,  how  much  the  world  is 


ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME.  337 

changed  to  me  since  I  was  in  Switzerland  last.  My  par- 
ents, my  Blanche,  and  sweet  Fanny  !  My  dear  husband, 
however,  is  my  world,  but  the  mother's  love  lit  up  that 
world  with  her  sweet  sympathy.  I  am  still  very  happy, 
but  I  have  learned  to  tremble.  I  had  lived  so  long  with- 
out losing.  [Speaking  of  a  girl  who  had  lost  her  mother :] 
But  it 's  only  a  mother  who  approves  one  not  only  through 
but  for  everything  —  or,  if  she  could  wish  any  change, 
any  increase  here  or  abatement  there,  still  "  covers  our 
faults  with  her  kisses,  and  loves  us  the  same."  All  other 
affection  is  too  wise,  too  clear-sighted,  too  impartial.  In 
short,  a  girl  with  or  without  a  mother  seems  to  me  to  be 
placed  in  two  quite  different  positions  —  each  having  ad- 
vantages no  doubt,  but  the  transition  out  of  the  former 
into  the  latter  is  like  a  new  birth,  or  a  dying  out  of  one 
world  into  another,  where  all  trials  and  disappointments 
and  mortifications  come  closer,  and  require  an  armor  of  the 
soul  that  it  does  not  consciously  need  with  the  shield  of 
the  mother's  partiality  to  ward  them  off.  .  .  We  are  all 
different  in  the  amount  and  the  quality  of  the  sympathy 
we  require.  Some  stand  alone  quite  contentedly  in  joy 
or  trial.  Others  want  to  call  together  their  friends  and 
neighbors  when  "  the  piece  of  silver  is  found."  "Rejoice 
with  me !  "  is  their  cry.  Others,  like  Irish  mourners,  al- 
ways invite  their  circle  of  intimates  to  howl  with  them  at 
a  wake  of  some  dead  hope  or  possession.  I  myself  am 
terribly  prone  to  wax  egotistical  about  my  happiness  — 
my  silver  piece,  found  when  I  looked  not  for  any  —  terri- 
bly liable  to  dilate  upon  its  value  and  all  its  peculiarities. 
That 's  my  snare ! 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

1  BEAUFORT  VILLAS, 
WESTON-SUPER-MARE,  December  1,  1865. 

.  .  .  When  William  is  well  [he  had  a  feverish  cold] 
the  proposed  month  in  Edinburgh  seems  delightful,  and  I 


338  WILLIAM   AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

think  it  would  be  good  and  pleasant  too  for  him  to  meet 
clever  men.  It  seems  hard  to  shut  up  a  mind  like  his 
with  only  a  woman  to  reflect  its  brightness  and  its  depths. 
He  had  such  a  nice  note  from  Mr.  Mill  the  other  day  — 
does  my  child  know  whom  I  mean  ?  J.  S.  Mill  —  who 
had  sent  William  his  book.  They  used  to  know  each 
other  very  well  many  years  ago,  and  to  meet  at  a  de- 
bating club.  Curiously,  William  had  told  me  he  made 
nothing  of  speaking  at  it,  and  I  had  believed  him,  and 
Mr.  Mill  in  this  note  refers  to  his  speeches  as  "  some  of 
the  best  ever  delivered  there."  ...  I  respect  him  quite 
as  much  as  I  love  him,  and  oh,  I  love  him  fearfully  /  .  .  . 
I  am  as  well  as  a  woman  can  be  who  has  got  so  far  down 
life's  hill.  But  indeed  were  there  no  looking-glasses,  and 
were  my  own  darling  mother  alive,  I  should  not  feel 
older  than  twenty  years  ago.  .  .  .  Last  Wednesday  week 
I  finished  my  German  story,  and  thought  I  should  have 
no  more,  but  on  Saturday  Mr.  Strahan  asked  me  to  take 
up  Eugenie  de  Guerin's  Letters.  As  Christmas  draws  on, 
I  shall  be  excited  about  my  cheque.  How  thankful  I  am 
for  this  occupation,  and  how  pleased  I  shall  be  if  the 
cheque  exceeds  my  estimate.  I  always  feel  this  cruse  of 
oil  of  translation  cannot  flow  on  much  longer,  but  I  thor- 
oughly appreciate  it  while  it  lasts.  .  .  .  Write  and  tell 
me  all  about  the  wardrobe.  How  does  it  stand  just  now  ? 
Do  you  like  these  silk  reps  I  see  everywhere?  I  am  so 
fond  of  dresses  and  cloaks  of  the  same,  whatever  it  be.  I 
had  thought  of  having  a  new  black  silk  this  winter,  but 
have  given  up  the  notion,  and  got  my  dear  Blanche's  done 
up  —  I  grudge  expense  on  my  own  dress  very  much.  I 
like  to  hear  all  about  your  attire.  What  are  the  bonnets 
to  be  ?  I  think  little  blue  velvets  would  be  very  pretty, 
with  quiet  dove-like  dresses  and  cloaks.  .  .  .  Good-by, 
child  of  my  affections  ! 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

AMONG  FKIENDS. 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

WE  left  Weston-super-Mare  with  tender  regret,  as  we 
always  did  any  place  where  we  had  been  quite  alone  — 
left  it  for  an  interval  of  social  life  in  Edinburgh  —  and  in 
the  February  of  1866  found  ourselves  once  more  at  New- 
ton Place.  During  the  eleven  months  that  we  spent  there 
we  had  very  frequent  guests  —  dear  young  nieces,  dear 
old  friends  —  of  mine  originally,  but  now  of  his,  for  he 
adopted  them  heartily,  and  not  any  of  them,  I  know  well, 
have  forgotten  or  will  forget  the  simple  cordiality  of  his 
welcome.  It  is  true  that  the  prospect  of  any  interruption 
to  our  duality  was  sometimes  perturbing  to  the  student, 
who  loved  his  regular  work  and  his  habitual  ways ;  true 
that  when  those  even  we  best  loved  left  and  we  returned 
to  each  other,  I  heard  the  words  that  above  all  words 
made  my  heart  leap  with  joy  :  "  Now  I  have  my  ideal  of 
life."  But  none  came  to  us  who  were  not  friends  indeed ; 
we  had  no  surface  acquaintance,  no  conventional  sociality, 
and  at  the  close  of  every  visit  we  received  we  found  our- 
selves enriched  by  pleasant  memories  and  enlarged  in- 
terests. Early  in  1867  we  made  our  winter  flight  to 
Brighton. 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

NEWTON  PLACE,  KESWICK,  February  22,  1866. 
I  do  not  like  to  leave  your  letter  unanswered,  or  you 
will  not  accredit  me  with  the  interest  I  really  took  in  it. 
I  could  wish  the  ball  to  have  been  less  grotesque,  because 


340  WILLIAM  SMITH. 

the  laughter  at  people  is  not  so  good  for  us  as  the  laugh- 
ter with  them  —  but  you  are  not  satirical,  and  satire  even 
where  it  exists  is  one  of  the  faults  we  outlive.  I  ain  sure 

was  much  admired,  and  I  like  her  to  have  had  this 

taste  of  gayety,  so  natural  and  therefore  so  healthy  to 
youth.  I  for  my  part  immensely  appreciated  my  taste  of 
society  —  never  cared  for  it  so  much  —  perhaps  was  never 
so  well  fitted  to  enjoy  it  as  now,  when  all  shyness  is  over, 
and  from  the  habit  of  living  with  a  mind  of  William's 
stamp,  I  feel  more  able  to  cope  with  minds  in  general. 
How  loving  and  dear  all  our  friends  were  —  wonderfully 
so  !  Darling  Mrs.  Jones's  hospitality  was  beyond  telling. 
Mrs.  Stirling,  Mrs.  Lorimer,  Mrs.  Blackie,  were  all  so 
much  more  affectionate  than  I  could  have  expected. 
And  then  my  young  friends  Fanny  and  Augusta  were  so 
dear  —  that  sweet  Augusta's  affection  I  take  as  a  great 
compliment.  Then,  the  pleasant  new  acquaintances  we 
made,  and  the  nice  way  they  all  had  of  wishing  we  were 
going  to  live  in  Edinburgh!  Altogether  I  don't  know 
that  I  ever  had  a  more  pleasant  social  experience,  and  I 
am  very  fond  of  society.  My  light  and  black  moires 
quite  set  me  up  in  the  way  of  evening  dress,  so  I  had 
nothing  to  get,  and  felt  nicely  dressed  —  which  even  at 
my  time  of  life  is  satisfactory,  how  much  more  so  at 
yours,  my  darling  !  We  dined  out  five  times  —  at  Mr. 
Blackwood's,  Mr.  Lorimer's,  Mrs.  Stirling's,  the  Smiths', 
and  the  Constables',  and  went  in  the  evening  to  the 
Blackies',  twice  to  the  Simons',  to  Miss  S.  Grahame's,  and 
to  Mrs.  Ferrier's.  .  .  .  Sweet  Mrs.  L is  quite  an  an- 
gel. Her  fearful  illness  seems  to  have  exalted,  sublimed 
her.  The  children  are  all  delightful.  Spite  of  her  very 
delicate  health  she  teaches  them  daily,  is  their  only  teacher, 
and  finds  time  for  all  her  duties.  In  short,  she  has  made 

the  deepest  impression  on  me.     Dear  Mrs.  B too  is  in 

very  delicate  health.  I  called  three  or  four  times  and 
had  nice  long  chats  with  her.  I  took  the  dear  little  Lor- 


AMONG  FRIENDS.  341 

imers  one  day  to  see  a  diorama,  and  saw  terrible  carica- 
tures of  some  of  our  beloved  Swiss  mountains.  Then  we 
went  to  two  concerts  ;  at  one  heard  Grisi  and  Mario  (oh, 
how  I  cried  with  enjoyment),  and  at  the  other,  for  which 
Mr.  R.  Smith  sent  us  tickets,  heard  Titiens  and  Joachim. 
In  short,  the  month  was  one  of  unalloyed  enjoyment,  and 
my  visit  to  your  dear  aunt  will  always  be  a  happy  mem- 
ory. .  .  .  Mrs. is  a  most  saintly  woman,  and  narrow 

as  her  Calvinism  seems  to  me,  yet  hers  is  a  faith  that 
"leads  harmonious  days."  One  of  our  Edinburgh  de- 
lights was  William  being  admirably  photographed  by  the 
most  artistic  photographer  I  have  ever  come  across,  a 
Mr.  Rejlander  who  was  staying  with  the  Constables  for  a 
fortnight,  and  doing  lovely  things  of  that  lovely  family. 
William's  head  is  a  great  success.  'T  is  a  large  photo  — 
so  thoughtful  and  really  good  looking.  All  others  have 
been  such  caricatures  of  him.  His  beard  makes  him  if 
anything  better  looking,  though  I  love  and  miss  the  dear 
large  mouth  and  well-formed  chin.  .  .  .  The  cold  when 
we  got  here  on  Saturday  was  intense,  but  we  have  con- 
quered it  by  roaring  fires,  and,  thank  God,  William  has 
not  taken  cold.  Yesterday  was  the  most  glorious  of  days 
—  snow  on  the  mountains  and  a  cloudless  sky,  and  the 
lake  mirroring  both. 

KESWICK,  October  17,  1866. 

This  will,  I  hope,  reach  you  on  the  morning  of  your 
birthday,  and  tell  you  how  lovingly  I  think  of  you,  and 
warmly  hope  (and  believe)  that  there  are  many,  many 
birthdays  in  store  for  you,  bright,  beautiful,  complete ; 
compared  to  this  birthday  (though  this  is  happy)  as  the 
full-blown  fragrance  of  the  flower  to  the  hard  green  bud, 
or  the  "  purple  light  of  noon  "  to  the  first  faint  flush  in 
the  east.  This  I  look  for  —  and  over  and  beyond  this  a 
growth  of  all  that  is  best  and  highest  in  you,  an  approach 
to  your  ideal,  which  is,  I  am  sure,  something  more  than 
personal  satisfaction,  even  of  the  sweetest  sort.  May  you 


342  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

be  a  comfort  and  help  and  strength  to  others,  my  darling 
—  I  think  you  will,  ever  more  and  more.  I  do  so  like  to 
picture  you  with  your  dear  Aunt  Matilda,  writing  for  her, 
reading  to  her,  and  gaining  from  her  "  wonderful  bright- 
ness and  cheerfulness  "  increased  confidence  in  that  Infin- 
ite Mercy  that  has  appointed  compensations  for  all  except 
for  the  misery  of  our  own  foolish,  grasping  desires  —  and 
taught  us  by  that  very  misery  to  seek  to  surrender  them. 
Your  long  letter  was  very  welcome  and  very  pleasant,  and 
it  was  dear  of  you  to  find  time  to  write  it  to  me.  This 
birthday  letter,  which  is  all  I  have  to  send,  shall  be  a 
long  one  in  return.  I  feel  my  thumb  a  little  sensitive, 
and  therefore  hold  my  pen  loosely,  which  makes  my  writ- 
ing very  niggling,  but  I  know  it  will  not  perplex  you. 
I  have  been  much  more  free  from  that  radiating  sense  of 
cold,  and  indeed  very  well,  though  I  hold  that  no  one 
is  free  from  some  uneasy  sensation  or  other  for  long 
together. 

...  I  never  saw  any  one  so  brightened  as  Miss . 

Her  whole  appearance  is  changed.  I  feel  sure  there  must 
be  some  new  light  risen  on  her  horizon  —  there  is  a  joy 
all  %over  and  through  her  —  a  wonderful  change.  Poor 

Mr. is  here,  and   we  met  him  twice.     I  could  but 

wring  his  hand  and  rush  away.  "  Love  knows  the  secret 
of  grief"  —  positively  it  shatters  me  to  meet  one  of  these 
half  lives,  divided  personalities.  I  have  asked  your 
mamma  to  send  "  Macmillan "  to  your  aunt  Matilda, 
thinking  she  might  like  to  throw  her  eye  over  Annie 
Clough's  plan  for  improving  female  education.  To-day 
Annie  tells  me  she  sees  an  opening  in  Liverpool  —  I  shall 
be  anxious  to  hear  more.  Mrs.  Clough  has  written  such 
a  sweet  letter  to  William,  asking  him  to  review  her  hus- 
band's Memoir  and  Poems  —  I  hope  he  will.  Yesterday, 
after  an  interval  of  about  ten  months,  Mr.  Strahan's  hand 
reappeared  —  I  was  glad  to  see  it.  He  sent  me  the  sheets 
of  an  unpublished  book,  to  make  a  paper  out  of  it  on  the 


AMONG   FRIENDS.  343 

state  of  the  Christians  in  Turkey,  and  wanted  it  back  to- 
morrow! The  thing  was  impossible,  and  indeed  I  never 
could  have  done  it  at  all,  but  my  precious  one  has  most 

kindly  taken  the  difficult  task  from  me.     Eugenie  W 

wants  me  to  do  some  poetry  for  a  friend  of  hers  who  is 
translating  but  can't  manage  the  rhymes  —  a  dear  little 
German  governess  who  is  doing  it  to  give  a  sister  a  small 
allowance.  Of  course  I  will  do  my  best.  So  I  have  got 
work,  though  of  the  unremunerative  order,  but  perhaps 
translation  will  come  by  and  by.  It  was  cheering  to 
see  Mr.  Strahan's  hand.  I  tell  my  child  the  interests  of 
my  life.  Here  we  are  —  we  two  —  alone  together,  and 
William  seems  to  like  that  we  should  sit  in  the  same 
room  again.  So  there  he  is  at  the  round  table  again, 
doing  my  work,  and  I  at  mine,  writing  to  my  child,  and 
oh,  so  thankful  and  tremblingly  happy  !  I  look  at  him 
there,  and  thinking  of  what  life  would  have  been  without 
him  may  well  say,  "  Thou  who  hast  given  so  much  to  me, 
give  me  one  thing  more  —  a  thankful  heart."  To-mor- 
row I  shall  bring  in  the  other  sofa,  and  settle  the  room 
to  my  mind. 

To  Mrs.  Cotton. 

NEWTON  PLACE,  1865. 

.  .  .  You  ask  me,  dear,  what  books  I  have  translated 
since  "  Human  Sadness."  A  great  many,  but  none  worth 
mentioning.  I  did  two  very  thick  volumes,  "  Outlines  of 
Theology  and  Philosophy,"  from  the  French  of  the  well- 
known  Swiss  theologian,  Alexander  Vinet.  Then  I  trans- 
lated Eugenie  de  Guerin's  journal  and  letters,  but  they 
were  too  slight  to  bear  the  process  well.  There  is  a  Ger- 
man tale,  "  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor,"  called 
"  Wealth  and  Welfare,"  just  come  out,  which  I  think 
will  very  probably  be  my  last  translation,  for  the  pub- 
lisher who  for  six  years  has  furnished  me  with  this  pleas- 
ant occupation,  and  sent  me  such  liberal  cheques,  has  now 
soared  into  a  higher  sphere  altogether,  and  is  little  likely, 


344  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

I  think,  to  bring  me  any  more  translations.  I  have  had 
nothing  to  do  the  whole  summer,  and  the  interval  of  idle- 
ness has  made  me  enjoy  our  guests  still  more  thoroughly. 
I  shall  be  charmed  if  any  work  of  the  kind  comes  to  me 
this  autumn,  but  I  do  not  soon  expect  it.  I  had  a  pos- 
sibility suggested  to  me  by  another  publisher  a  few  days 
ago,  but  I  'm  not  sanguine  as  to  the  books  he  mentions 
proving  worth  the  doing,  and  as  he  refers  the  decision  to 
me  I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  tell  him  so.  I  do  not 
like  the  responsibility  of  deciding. 

To  Mrs.  Cotton. 

NEWTON  PLACE,  1866. 

.  .  .  Do  you  know,  my  darling,  I  suspect  that  our  way 
of  living  —  so  out  of  society  and  all  its  restrictions,  seeing 
none  but  intimate  friends,  never  having  (or  seldom)  to 
suppress  an  opinion  or  put  on  a  conventional  semblance, 
—  is  unfitting  me  fast  for  anything  else.  The  very  idea 
of  "  standing  on  one's  hind-legs,"  as  your  delightful  Mrs. 

D said,  makes  me  shudder.     Then  I  have  a  growing 

sense  of  dowdiness  and  want  of  savoir  faire  I  Remova- 
ble I  think  by  millinery  in  some  measure,  but  then  the 
remedy  would  be  worse  than  the  disease.  All  merely  su- 
perficial relations,  all  acquaintance,  becomes,  I  find,  so  irk- 
some, and  this  probably  because  one  has  nothing  to  repay 
the  casual  glance.  What  I  mean  is  that  unless  I  am  loved 
I  should  never  be  liked.  But  don't  imagine  that  I  would 
willingly  get  odd  or  wilfully  unconventional.  On  the 
contrary,  in  deference  to  Minma's  remonstrances  I  dis- 
carded a  faithful  bonnet,  comparatively  of  the  coal-scuttle 
shape,  and  adopted  a  small  pretence,  a  mere  figment,  un- 
suited  to  my  years  !  .  .  .  We  shall  see  Eugenie  I  hope  at 
Brighton,  for  it  is  there  we  are  going.  Just  because  it 's 
so  little  attractive  for  me  I  think  it  is  better  for  me  than 
to  go  from  solitude  to  solitude,  and  then,  though  William 
kindly  assures  me  he  should  like  Barmouth  just  as  well,  it 


AMONG  FRIENDS.  345 

is  natural  that  he  should  take  an  interest  in  a  place  where 
he  has  lived  so  much,  so  that  I  am  sure  it  is  a  judicious 
move.  There  is  one  person  whom  I  shall  be  truly  sorry 
to  leave  —  a  dear  old  woman  of  ninety-seven,  with  all  her 
faculties  clear  and  bright,  and  much  enjoyment  of  life 
still  —  nay,  with  a  merry  spirit  and  a  sense  of  fun  which 
does  not  in  many  survive  youth.  To-day  she  was  talking 
to  me  of  her  mother,  "  dear  old  woman,"  as  she  calls  her. 
She  says  she  dreams  of  her  constantly.  We  are  great 
friends,  old  Sally  Yewdale  and  I,  and  if  we  live  to  return, 
we  may  find  her,  for  she  does  not  seem  to  have  even  the 
germ  of  any  disease,  and  is  full  of  mental  vigour. 

I  was  much  struck  one  summer  Sunday  with  a  face  be- 
fore me  in  church.  The  profile  was  plain  and  common- 
looking,  but  the  full  face  beautiful  with  the  bright  spirit 
within.  When  I  heard  Mr.  Trevelyan  was  staying  at 
Grange,  I  felt  sure  this  face  belonged  to  him,  and  so  it 
did ;  and  I  had  his  photograph  lent  me  and  admired  it  un- 
speakably ;  and  when  we  came  across  hini  in  our  rambles 
I  always  looked  at  him  with  interest.  And  so  I  came  to 
wanting  to  read  what  he  had  written,  and  dear  Annie 
Clough  sent  me  his  "  Cawnpore,"  which  William  had  al- 
ways refused  to  let  me  have  from  the  London  Library. 
And  he  was  perhaps  right  —  it  is  too  painful,  but  I  think 
the  most  interesting  book  I  ever  read.  The  first  chapters 
are  brilliantly  and  graphically  written  ;  afterwards  one 
does  not  think  of  that,  but  of  the  "  fruitless  valor  and  un- 
utterable woe."  When  the  newspapers  told  the  terrible 
story  it  did  not  torture  me  as  this  book  did.  The  suffer- 
ings in  the  entrenchments  one  can  bear  to  think  of,  for 
there  was  action,  heroism,  and  sympathy.  But  that  mas- 
sacre darkens  the  very  sun,  and  shakes  one  to  the  centre. 
For  days  I  was  haunted  by  it.  You  must  have  been  far 
more  impressed  at  the  time  than  even  we  in  England 
were,  and  I  am  sure  I  don't  want  any  one  to  feel  their 
heart  and  faith  sink  as  mine  did  over  this  fearfully  ab- 


346  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

sorting  book.  I  think  it  is  wonderfully  written,  and 
after  the  description  of  "  the  Station"  felt  as  if  I  had 
been  there. 

.  .  .  Will  you  not  despise  us  forever  when  1  tell  you 
we  did  not  see  the  meteors  I  We  take  a  two-days-old 
"  Times,"  and  did  not  know  the  full  glories  to  be  revealed, 
else  of  course  we  should  never  have  thought  of  going  to 
bed  after  looking  out  too  soon.  I  shall  never  be  quite 
the  same  woman  in  consequence ! 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

KESWICK,  Jan.  21,  1867. 

How  I  hope  you  got  well  to  your  journey's  end,  and 
have  not  taken  cold  !  To-morrow  will  tell.  Matthew  has 
just  brought  in  a  very  long  letter  from  dearest  Mrs. 
Jones  —  five  sheets.  I  send  you  two  —  were  you  here, 
you  should  have  them  all,  of  course,  but  I  don't  mean  to 
exceed  my  one-penny  stamp.  We  are  all  packed  up,  and 
purpose  setting  off  for  Brighton  to-morrow  morning.  How 
beautiful  it  was  yesterday !  When  I  got  back,  I  tidied 
the  drawing-room,  and  made  it  look  so  comfortable  with 
the  two  sofas,  little  table,  etc.,  that  I  really  should  have 
been  content  to  settle  down  for  another  week.  Then  I 
went  to  visit  William,  and  he  proposed  that  we  should 
go  to  Lodore  together.  I  do  wish  you  had  seen  it  —  it  is 
magical.  The  monuments  William  described  were 
strangely  impressive  and  solemn  —  the  reclining  figure 
more  perfect  than  I  expected  ;  the  icicles  hung  over  like 
exquisite  drapery,  and  behind  them  seemed  a  dark  cave. 
Then  the  moonlight  was  so  fascinating  we  could  hardly 
get  to  bed  for  watching  it.  This  morning  I  longed  to  go 
and  see  Sally,  but  was  disinclined  to  walk  so  far  along  the 
snowy  road.  And  I  felt  dull  and  inert,  and  that  perhaps 
has  told  upon  my  beloved,  or  else  it  is  the  inevitable  de- 
pression that  attends  a  move  —  but  whatever  it  is,  we  are 
quiet  and  subdued,  both  of  us.  We  have  ha.c|  eleven 


AMONG   FRIENDS.  347 

months  of  such  unbroken  health  and  happiness  here,  and 
we  both  feel  committing  ourselves  to  the  unknown.  Clara 
writes  very  lovingly.  .  .  .  Life  seems  to  me  to-night  so 
short — as  though  it  were  hardly  worth  while  to  plan.  I 
hope  there  will  be  no  sudden  thaw  to-morrow,  but  the 
wind  rises  in  fitful,  threatening,  wailing  gusts.  I  have 
done  all  my  packing  again  —  all  is  ready  —  and  this  room 
that  has  known  us  so  long  will  know  us  no  more.  I  wish 
I  had  some  old  clothes  for  the  Irish  woman,  but  I  have 
not,  as  you  know.  But  when  we  get  to  Brighton,  I  will 
send  you  some  stamps  for  her.  I  am  afraid,  my  darling, 
I  shall  not  be  thought  to  have  time  to  add  anything  in 
the  morning,  but  I  need  not  tell  you  how  rejoiced  I  shall 
be  to  have  a  good  account  of  you  all. 

BRIGHTON,  January  24,  1867. 

Here  we  are,  you  see  —  safe,  which  is  a  great  bless- 
ing—  very  dejected,  absurdly  so  —  but  I  hope  and  be- 
lieve we  shall  yet  rally,  and  smile  again !  Ah,  how  beau- 
tiful it  was  on  Monday  morning,  and  how  affectionately 
sorry  to  lose  us  the  nice  people  were.  Who  should  get 
out  of  the  carriage  we  were  about  to  get  into  at  Keswick, 
but  Mrs.  Todhunter  with  her  baby  in  her  arms  —  but  she 
feared  to  let  me  peep  at  it,  so  intense  was  the  cold.  She 
looked  very  large  and  very  happy,  but  the  meeting  was  so 
hurried  I  feared  I  might  not  have  seemed  genial  —  how 
can  you,  with  both  hands  full,  and  your  foot  on  a  railway 
step  ?  At  Penrith  some  one  reached  up  to  kiss  me  —  it 
was  Mrs.  Lietch,  going  back  to  her  house.  There  was 
only  one  lady  with  us,  nice-looking  and  sweet-voiced.  As 
we  rolled  away  from  a  station,  where  we  had  had  a  mouth- 
ful of  hot  tea  at  the  refreshment  room,  her  countenance 
fell  —  she  had  lost  her  purse.  Evidently  she  was  a  good 
deal  agitated  —  her  ticket  was  in  it,  and  about  five  pounds. 
William  at  once  pulled  out  Ms  purse,  and  oh,  how  kind 
and  earnest  and  real  his  dear  eyes  looked  as  he  held  it  out 


348  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

with  its  bright  sovereigns,  and  begged  she  would  take 
whatever  she  might  want.  However,  she  expected  to  be 
met  —  and  finally  she  found  her  own  purse,  which  she 
was  sitting  upon  —  in  a  manner  worthy  of  me !  We  got 
to  Euston  station  at  eleven  o'clock,  had  our  tea,  and  then 
a  perfect  bed  with  any  amount  of  rest  in  it.  And  the 
next  morning  (yesterday !  it  seems  six  months  ago)  we 
went  off  to  London  Bridge  station,  William  calling  at  the 
Bank  on  the  way  and  getting  his  dividend.  Of  course  we 
were  an  hour  and  a  half  too  soon,  and  that  being  the  case 
I  did  not  wish  to  be  relegated  to  the  crowded  ladies'  wait- 
ing-room, but  said  I  would  wait  in  the  general  waiting- 
room  with  William.  Accordingly  our  bags,  his  cloak,  and 
the  railway  rugs  were  put  on  a  round  table  in  that  general 
waiting-room,  but  there  the  crowd  was  greater,  and  Wil- 
liam advised  me  to  return  to  the  other,  and  said  he  would 
stay  there.  But  the  dear  one  forgot  .to  keep  his  eye  upon 
the  luggage,  and  his  bag  —  with  little  in  it  but  documents, 
the  loss  of  which  may  be  serious  —  my  bag,  with  all  its 
contents,  brushes,  inkstand,  gold  pen,  account  book,  etc. 
—  and  his  dear  old  cloak,  were  whisked  off,  never  more  to 
be  seen  by  us !  But  in  this  world  of  calamities  I  'm  not 
going  to  make  a  misery  of  that  —  't  is  an  inconvenience, 
and  a  loss  of  about  two  pounds  (not  more,  because  I 
shan't  dream  of  replacing  the  bag),  and  I  shall  not  get 
accustomed  to  it  immediately.  Still,  if  it  ends  there  it 
is  nothing.  The  weather  was  indescribably  wretched  yes- 
terday, and  what  we  thought  of  the  gloom  of  Brighton  ! 
Oh,  how  we  have  fretted,  and  asked  what  madness  brought 
us  to  the  haunts  of  men  —  us,  who  are  so  happy  in  our 
own  life.  I  am  sure  Rebecca  is  as  kind  as  possible,  but 
we  cannot  be  pleasant  guests,  we  are  so  low.  A  dreadful 
day  of  lodging-hunting  —  every  variety  of  objection  dif- 
fused over  a  wide  range  of  houses  —  nice  rooms  too  dear, 
the  cheaper  too  odious,  or  the  women  offensive.  I  have 
seen  two  or  three  most  satisfactory  ones,  but  they  were 


AMONG  FRIENDS.  349 

just  let!  However,  this  is  Thursday  morning,  and  we  are 
going  to  gird  our  loins  energetically,  choose,  and  move. 
Somehow  these  last  two  days  have  deepened  my  sense  of 
the  wretchedness  of  an  itinerant  life.  I  think  we  shall 
try  to  settle  at  Newton  Place.  In  the  prostration  of  our 
intellects  yesterday,  William  and  I  had  our  hair  cut,  both 
in  one  room,  and  a  droller  sight  I  never  saw  than  our  two 
sorrowful  visages  sheeted  up,  with  whiskered  men  manip- 
ulating us !  My  kindest  love  to  all.  Dear  me,  how 
much  I  could  tell  you,  but  writing  is  naught. 

[On  the  envelope.]     We  have  found  charming  rooms ! 

BRIGHTON,  February  4,  1867. 

...  At  the  Willetts'  we  met  such  a  young  man !  He 
is  a  very  High  Church  clergyman,  and  as  you  know  I  have 
no  predilection  that  way.  But  all  forms  of  earnest  good- 
ness I  do  at  least  heartily  admire.  This  Mr.  F 

W is  doing,   it  seems,  a  quite  wonderful  work  in  his 

living  of  West  Bromwich,  somewhere  in  the  Black  Coun- 
try. No  one  thinks  of  dwelling  there  who  can  help  it, 
none  of  the  manufacturers,  nor  did  his  predecessor.  Con- 
sequently when  he  first  went  there  he  counted  seven  peo- 
ple in  church  besides  the  officials.  Now  they  go  away  by 
fifties  because  the  church  can't  hold  them  all.  He  has 
three  devoted  curates,  men  of  his  own  stamp ;  they  have 
service  every  evening  at  seven,  and  a  good  many  of  the 
night  workers  like  to  go  to  that  service  before  they  turn  in 
to  bed  for  the  day.  Of  course  it  is  a  short  service,  and 
there  is  very  beautiful  singing.  Any  one  who  sees  this 
zealous  young  priest  can  understand  his  influence.  He  is 
very  powerful  and  manly,  and  has  the  sweetest  smile. 
Then  there  is  such  a  simplicity  and  thoroughness  about 
him,  and  of  course  his  choosing  to  live  in  the  midst  of  dirt 
and  smoke  and  poverty  tells  immensely  in  his  favor.  He 
seems  quite  as  anxious  about  their  bodies  as  their  souls, 
and  has  established  a  hospital.  He  is  very  well  off,  but 


350  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

if  he  had  only  eighty  pounds  a  year  I  should  call  him  a 
glorious  match  for  any  girl  who  was  worthy.  Such 
straight  black  eyebrows,  and  deep-set  blue  eyes !  I  am 
quite  faithless  to  my  fair-haired  ideal.  And  then  the 
sweet  way  in  which  he  played  whist  with  his  mother  and 
an  old  aunt.  I  was  his  partner,  and  we  won  two  rubbers. 
I  beg  to  say  he  invited  me  most  kindly  for  the  Birming- 
ham oratorio,  or  church  congress,  or  anything  else  there 
might  be.  But  my  beloved  one  was  naughty  that  evening, 
fell  into  a  silent  mood,  and  could  not  be  got  away  from 
picture-books  —  his  great  snare.  ...  I  must  return  to 
Thursday,  to  tell  you  what  greeted  me  on  my  return  from 
the  Willetts'.  Such  a  box  from  my  beloved  Mrs.  Jones ! 
A  delightful  bag,  large  and  light,  really  far  more  pleasant 
to  carry  than  the  fitted-up  ones  —  a  beauty  quite,  and  in 
it  the  gold  pen  with  which  I  am  now  writing,  destined,  I 
trust,  to  be  as  great  a  comfort  as  the  last  was.  It  runs  on 
delightfully,  and  will  no  doubt  go  on  improving.  And 
such  a  pretty  box  of  dear  Mr.  Jones's,  and  such  a  lovely 
inkstand  to  replace  dear  Annie's !  There  never  was  such 
a  gracious,  generous  nature  as  that  darling  woman's,  and 
she  makes  all  her  gifts  dearer  by  saying  that  whether  they 
answer  the  purpose  or  not  "  the  love  they  come  with  is  all 
right."  Bless  her !  I  am  grateful.  In  the  evening  of 
Saturday  your  uncle  William  went  to  have  a  chat  with 
Mr.  Joshua  Williams,  and  I  to  Mrs.  Woodford's,  and  he 
came  there  for  me.  Miss  Kinglake  had  with  her  a  singu- 
larly charming  early  friend  of  hers.  This  lady  had  be- 
come a  Catholic,  but  I  have  no  objection  to  "  that  sort," 
as  dear  old  Sally  said.  I  do  not  know  when  I  have  met 
any  one  who  had  the  same  intense  refinement  of  voice  and 
felicity  of  expression.  Her  lips  dropped  pearls  —  the 
merest  word  told  of  intellect,  and  I  think  sweetness,  at  all 
events  of  highest  culture.  At  a  little  distance  she  is  still 
so  pretty.  Miss  Kinglake  had  told  me  much  of  her  fasci- 
nation in  youth,  and  I  was  not  disappointed.  But  there 


AMONG  FRIENDS.  351 

was  a  cross-grained  young  man  there,  with  his  glass 
screwed  tight  into  his  eye,  and  generally  disposed  to  put 
people  down.  I  did  not  enjoy  my  evening  —  your  Zia  is 
soon  chilled  and  cowed.  I  felt  too  shivery  and  good-for- 
nothing  last  evening  to  venture  out ;  thought  indeed  I  was 
going  to  have  a  violent  cold  ;  but  thanks  to  aconite  taken 
in  time,  and  what  the  dear  grandfather  used  to  call  my 
44  resiliency,"  I  am  sharp  enough  this  evening  to  contem- 
plate going  to  the  Phipps's.  There  are  only  to  be  a  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Carpenter  there.  Pray  Heaven  William  may 
be  chatty,  for  Mr.  Carpenter  has  long  wished  to  see  him, 
and  is  said  to  be  a  very  superior  man.  And  to  people  who 
know  and  delight  in  his  books,  it  must  be  a  disappoint- 
ment to  see  him  shut  himself  up  in  a  picture-book. 

March  3,  1867. 

...  I  have  liked  Brighton  much  better  this  time  as 
regards  people.  Mr.  Carpenter  is  so  charming  —  so  emi- 
nently one  of  the  salt  of  the  earth.  Some  might  say  that 
his  religion  was  philosophy,  but  it  is  not  cold  and  abstract 
—  the  man  glows  with  love  to  God  and  man.  He  was 
with  us  hours  on  Sunday  evening,  and  if  we  come  again 
he  will  greet  us  as  friends.  Then  Mr.  Long  J  I  delight 
in,  and  the  young  clergyman.  Mr.  Phipps,  to  whom  we 
owe  that  pleasant  new  acquaintance,  is  very  taking,  and 
evidently  likes  William  exceedingly  —  comes  to  take  him 
out  walking  in  a  nice,  cordial  way. 

To  Mrs.  Cotton. 

BRIGHTON,  Feb.  8,  1867. 

Why  should  I  not  have  a  few  words  with  you,  even 
though  you  should  not  have  time  to  reply  ?  I  am  quite 
sure  you  will  not  think  them  unwelcome,  and  I  feel  in  a 
sort  of  dreamy,  tender,  subdued  mood  —  retrospective 

1  The  late  Mr.  George  Long,  author  of  A  History  of  the  Roman 
Republic. 


352  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

and  perhaps  a  little  sad  —  in  which  an  old  friend  is  the 
very  person  one  naturally  turns  to.  And  what  old  friends 
you  and  I  are,  darling!  Do  you,  I  wonder,  remember 
how  at  Penhelig  we  two  (surely  remarkably  intelligent 
girls  of  twelve!)  used  to  discuss  theological  subjects  in 
the  dear  shrubbery  ?  I  from  the  decidedly  Calvinistic 
point  of  view  which  darling  Mrs.  Scott  found  rather  ob- 
jectionable, and  which  you  by* no  means  shared!  And 
then  the  talks  of  our  youth  —  the  pleasures,  the  sorrows, 
the  aspirations !  And  all  that  so  long  ago !  How  long 
has  just  been  brought  to  my  mind  by  a  morning  call  from 
Mr.  .  He  looked  with  ^great  interest  at  my  photo- 
graphs of  sweet  Louise  and  you,  and  felt  how  gracefully 
and  how  generously  time  had  dealt  with  both.  Naturally 
he  did  not  tell  me  how  lamentable  the  impression  my  ap- 
pearance made,  but  he  looked  it.  He  and  I  never  had 
much  to  say  to  each  other,  and  should  probably  feel  more 
kindly  now  through  the  virtue  of  old  memories,  common 
memories,  than  we  ever  did  before.  But  his  presence  and 
talk  generally  has  had  a  wonderful  effect  in  making  me 
realize  how  long  I  have  sat  at  Life's  feast,  and  how  soon 
I  must  rise  and  make  room  for  others  at  the  richly  spread 
table.  To  me  the  best  things  have  come  late  —  the}r  are 
still  so  freshly  enjoyed  I  do  not  like  to  think  my  time 
must  be  short.  We  all,  I  fancy,  take  our  own  notions  of 
ourselves  from  what  others  form.  When  I  live  with  Wil- 
liam, while  I  am  alone  with  him,  years  have  done  me  no 
wrong.  I  am  what  he  sees  me  to  be  —  I  look  at  myself 
through  the  flattering  medium  of  those  kind  eyes,  partial 
as  my  mother's  —  I  am  bright  by  reflection  —  I  am  on 
easy,  affectionate  terms  with  myself  !  Oh,  "  how  am  I 
translated  "  by  this  interview  with  Mr.  -  - !  How  el- 
derly, how  ugly,  how  uninteresting !  You  will  think  me 
crazy,  perhaps,  but  I  've  a  notion  too  that  what  one  human 
being  really  feels  can  hardly  be  quite  unintelligible  to  any 
other.  Your  old  and  admiring  friend  Mr. looks 


AMONG  FRIENDS.  353 

well,  and  has  a  pleasant  manner,  and  though  I  don't  say 
the  effect  on  me  of  the  effect  I  made  upon  him  was  exhil- 
arating, still  I  am  glad  to  have  seen  him. 

I  do  hope  we  may  go  to  London  for  a  fortnight,  or 
three  weeks.  Would  we  could  spend  some  hours  together, 
say  at  the  Zoological  Garden  —  my  idea  of  enjoyment !  — 
and  thoroughly  wake  up  the  dear  old  friendship  which  will 
never  die,  I  am  quite  sure,  but  which  must  needs  grow 
comparatively  lethargic  and  silent  for  want  of  the  viva 
voce,  the  laugh  and  sigh  shared,  the  agreement  or  the  ar- 
gument as  the  case  might  be.  Sweet  Mary !  Do  girls 
nowadays  admire  each  other  as  I  admired  you?  Are 
there  such  darlings  to  be  seen  ?  You  combined,  and  com- 
bine, so  very  much.  I  am  longing  to  know  where  you 
will  go  first  when  you  leave  the  happy  home  of  five  years. 
There  will  be  so  many  friends  claiming  you,  you  will  be 
torn  to  pieces,  and  indeed  I  shall  not  be  surprised  to  hear 
that  you  run  away  from  them  all  and  go  and  tour  in  Swit- 
zerland. And  here  are  we  beginning  to  think  that  we 
should  like  to  pitch  a  more  permanent  tent  than  we  have 
done  hitherto  —  not  that  any  years  can  ever  be  happier 
than  these  last  six  have  been.  ...  I  have  been  laid  up  the 
last  two  or  three  days  with  cold,  sick  headache,  etc.,  and 
I  think  that 's  why  I  think  in  the  minor  key,  so  to  speak. 
Generally  my  spirits  are  —  I  would  say  absurdly  high, 
but  that  William  likes  them,  and  would  not,  I  think,  even 
if  he  could,  barter  this  "  antic  and  exultant  spirit "  for 
stronger  intellect  or  wider  cultivation.  You  know  that 
we  had  M with  us  again  for  a  month.  She  is  a  dar- 
ling, and  I  was  more  than  ever  struck  with  her  very  re- 
markable intellectual  quickness.  She  seems  to  me  to  have 
an  aptitude  for  almost  everything.  ...  I  am  going  to  put 
in  instead  of  any  more  letter  some  very  simple  lines  — 
something  like  a  little  poem  of  G run's  I  read  and  took  a 
great  fancy  to  six  years  ago  —  but  how  like  I  really  do 
not  know. 


354  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 


THE  WEDDING  RING. 

I  climbed  the  hill,  and  looked  around  — 

The  prospect  stretched  out  wide  ; 
Green  vales,  rich  woods,  and  shining  sea  — 

Beauty  on  every  side  ! 

So  fair,  so  far,  so  boundless  all  ! 

My  spirit  was  oppressed  ; 
My  glance  roamed  round,  now  here,  now  there, 

And  knew  not  where  to  rest. 

Then  from  my  finger,  half  in  play, 

My  wedding  ring  I  drew  ; 
And  through  that  golden  circlet  small 

Looked  out  upon  the  view. 

I  saw  a  wreath  of  cottage  smoke, 

A  church  spire  rising  by, 
A  river  wind  thro'  sheltering  trees, 

Above  —  a  reach  of  sky. 

This  little  picture  I  had  made 

Both  cheered  and  calmed  my  soul ; 
True,  I  saw  less,  but  what  I  saw 

Was  dearer  than  the  whole. 

More  vivid  light,  more  solemn  shades, 

Such  limits  seemed  to  bring  ;  — 
My  portion  of  the  world  be  still 

Framed  in  my  wedding  ring  ! 

Now  I  Ve  written  them  out  they  don't  seem  worth  it,  but 
there  's  a  truth  in  them.  My  darling  Mary,  keep  a  little 
corner  in  your  dear  heart  for  your  and  General  Cotton's 
truly  affectionate  and  appreciating  L.  C.  S. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

PEN   PORTRAITS. 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

FOR  the  summer  of  1867  we  fixed  ourselves  at  Bar- 
mouth,  in  North  Wales  —  a  place  to  which  my  husband 
had  never  before  been,  though  he  had  chosen  it  for  the 
scene  of  one  of  the  episodes  in  "  Thorndale."  We  had  a 
snug  little  cottage  to  ourselves,  perched  just  above  the  es- 
tuary, on  the  other  side  of  which  rose  the  range  of  Cader 
Idris.  The  place  suited  my  husband's  health,  and  as 
usual  we  were  fortunate  in  a  landlady  whose  kindliness 
and  care  for  us  gave  us  a  sense  of  comfort  and  security 
very  precious  to  both.  We  should  have  been,  I  believe, 
unduly  pained  by  an  opposite  experience,  but  during  our 
married  life  we  never  encountered  it.  My  husband's  un- 
varying consideration  for  the  claims  and  the  feelings  of 
all  brought  into  contact  with  him,  as  well  as  his  self-help- 
fulness and  punctuality,  made  him  the  most  popular  of 
lodgers.  Looking  over  my  diaries,  whatever  year  I  take 
up  seems  to  have  been  the  happiest !  William  was  much 
occupied,  I  remember,  this  particular  summer,  with  scien- 
tific subjects.  One  of  the  papers  that  he  wrote  for  the 
magazine  was  a  review  of  a  work  of  Emile  Saigey's,  treat- 
ing of  the  "  Unity  of  Natural  Phenomena."  I  think  the 
closing  paragraph  will  interest  some  who  read  these 
pages :  — 

What  if  the  movements  of  suns  and  planets,  about  which  so 
many  theories  have  been  devised,  should  at  last  be  studied  in 
the  mpvements  of  the  molecule  ?  The  movements  of  suns  and 


356  WILLIAM   AND   LUCY  SMITH. 

systems  may  be  but  results  or  examples  of  those  two  movements 
of  rotation  and  translation  with  which  we  found  it  necessary  to 
endow  every  atom  from  the  commencement. 

Need  we  add  that  we  have  still  to  ask  how  atoms  came  to  be 
endowed  with  these  movements,  and  were  brought  into  all  these 
rhythms  or  harmonies  ?  Need  we  add  that  our  last  and  boldest 
generalizations  only  make  the  necessity  more  glaring  to  supple- 
ment the  atom  and  its  movement  with  the  great  idea  of  Intelli- 
gential  Power  ? 

God,  and  the  atom,  and  the  soul  of  man, 
Something  we  seem  to  know  of  all  the  three  — 
Something  —  and  only  —  always  —  of  the  three. 

We  were  seven  months  at  Barmouth.  What  memories 
arise  of  grave  and  tender  talk  during  sunset  strolls  along 
the  quiet  sands,  while  the  distant  Carnarvonshire  moun- 
tains stood  out  lilac  against  a  "  daffodil  sky ;  "  of  glad 
morning  rambles,  after  morning  work,  over  hills  gorgeous 
with  furze  and  heather ;  or  rapid  pacing  up  and  down  the 
bridge,  watching  the  flowing  or  the  ebbing  rush  of  the 
tide !  We  had  a  good  many  brief  visits  from  different 
friends  during  the  summer,  but  we  were  much  alone  too. 
The  winter  found  us  in  Edinburgh. 

During  our  stay  there  one  of  our  peculiar  interests  lay 
in  attending  together,  every  Sunday  morning,  a  rather 
singular  service  held  by  a  Mr.  Cranbrook  in  the  Hopetoun 
Rooms.  Mr.  Cranbrook  had  been  originally,  I  believe, 
an  Independent  minister,  but  at  the  time  I  speak  of  he 
had  seceded  from  that  body.  We  never  knew  his  history 
with  exactness,  but  heard  of  him  as  an  earnest  thinker, 
following  at  any  cost  what  he  deemed  truth.  He  was  then 
evidently  in  ill .  health,  and  had  the  wistful  look  of  one 
"  led  by  the  Spirit  "  into  a  desert.  His  congregation  was 
small,  but  loving  hands  always  placed  flowers  on  each 
side  of  the  desk  before  him.  His  sermons  were  generally 
critical,  but  in  his  prayers  the  emotional  nature  of  the 
man  came  out.  We  found  the  contrast  between  the  cold 


PEN  PORTRAITS.  357 

analytical  tone  of  his  preaching  and  the  passionate  cry  of 
his  heart  deeply  pathetic,  and  came  away  with  much  to 
talk  over  during  our  Sunday  morning  walk.  To  me  it 
was  always  an  unspeakable  interest  to  go  with  my  hus- 
band to  a  place  of  worship.  I  never  saw  there  a  de- 
meanor quite  the  same  as  his,  —  he  sat  so  still,  there  was 
such  reverent  attention  in  his  fixed  glance.  It  was  not 
often  that  I  had  this  experience  ;  compromises  and  con- 
formity to  custom  formed  no  part  of  his  religion ;  but  he 
laid  down  no  rules  for  others  ;  could  understand  how  in 
them  memories  and  affections  might  hold  together  old 
habits  and  changed  opinions;  never  charged  their  intel- 
lectual inconsistency  with  dishonesty.  When  I  returned 
from  church,  he  liked  me  to  tell  him  what  I  had  heard 
there,  and  if  a  deepened  sense  of  things  unseen  and  a  de- 
sire to  live  more  in  accordance  with  the  highest  standard 
be  the  best  results  of  religious  teaching,  then  it  was  his 
comments  that  most  helped  me.  I,  on  my  side,  rever- 
enced the  law  of  his  higher  nature,  —  unflinchingly 
obeyed,  and  rewarded  openly  by  a  transparent  simplicity,  a 
reality  in  look,  and  speech,  and  gesture,  that  all  felt  the 
influence  of,  and  which  his  venerable  friend  Dr.  Brabant 
once  referred  to  in  these  words,  "  When  I  am  with  your 
husband,  I  feel  in  the  presence  of  absolute  truth." 

In  the  January  of  1868  we  left  Edinburgh  for  our  dear 
Newton  Place,  and  some  of  our  kind  friends  thought  it  an 
injudicious  move.  But  even  in  winter  we  enjoyed  it  thor- 
oughly ;  perhaps  never  more  than  then,  when  mighty 
winds  swooping  down  from  Sea wf ell  tossed  and  twisted 
our  protecting  trees  and  shook  the  walls  of  our  dwelling 
as  they  passed  us  by,  or  when  heavy  rains  had  turned 
our  meadow  into  a  lake,  and  flooded  roads  shut  us  most 
completely  in.  To  the  happy,  storm  is  as  exhilarating  as 
sunshine,  and  I  used  to  liken  our  secluded  life  to  a  full 
glass  of  champagne,  into  which  —  drop  the  merest  trifle, 
it  effervesces  anew.  A  book,  a  magazine,  sent  by  a 


358  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

friend,  a  parcel  from  the  London  library,  the  arrival  of 
proof  to  correct,  etc.,  still  more,  any  natural  spectacle  — 
northern  lights,  frost-work,  falling  snow  —  anything,  ev- 
erything, was  pleasurable  excitement.  On  such  winter 
evenings  my  husband  would  often  take  me  from  room  to 
room  of  our  dwelling  "  to  show  me  "  the  moon,  or  moon- 
lit clouds,  or  the  starlight  splendor  in  different  parts  of 
the  sky.  And  after  standing  long  in  silence  together  gaz- 
ing at  the  silent  stars,  he  would  turn  from  their  oppres- 
sive magnificence  with  such  words  as  these :  u  Love 
must  be  better  than  hate  in  all  worlds  I  "  So  much  was 
certain.  While  thus  alone,  from  the  first  hour  of  rising 

—  when  I  could  hear  him  "  singing,  dancing  to  himself  " 

—  to  the  winding  up  of  our  evening  by  some  game  of 
chess  or  cards,   all  was  conscious  enjoyment.     I  cannot 
convey  to  those  who  did  not  know  him,  or  knew  him  but 
slightly,  the  variety  of  his  playfulness,  the  delicate  humor 
that  gave  charm  and  freshness  to  "  every  day's  most  quiet 
need  by  sun  and  candlelight."      I  suppose  it  required  a 
heart  like  his,  "  moored  to  something  ineffable,  supreme," 
and  an  entire  absence  from  personal  anxieties,  enmities, 
ambitions.      I  only  know  that  this  "spirit  of  joy"  that 
he  felt  and  diffused  was,  as  far  as  my  experience  goes, 
unique,  and  no  sketch  of  his   character  that  did  not  lay 
stress  upon  it  could  be  in  any  degree  complete. 

This  year,  1868,  —  our  "  Annus  Mirabilis,"  as  he  some- 
times called  it,  —  was  the  most  social  of  all  our  years. 
For  several  months  we  had  a  succession  of  dear  friends, 
some  of  them  eminently  congenial  companions  to  my  hus- 
band ;  and  between  their  coming  and  going,  intervals  of 
our  own  life.  William  was  well  and  strong  ;  the  seasons 
were  all  unusually  fine  ;  in  autumn  the  hills  were  one 
sheet  of  golden  bracken,  such  as  we  never  saw  before  or 
since ;  the  leaves  hung  later  on  his  beloved  birch -trees, 
and  our  mountain  walks  were  longer  than  usual. 


PEN  PORTRAITS.  359 

To  Mr.  TJwmas  Constable. 

BARMOUTH,  June. 

I  have  had  a  great  pleasure  this  last  fortnight.  Just 
when  I  had  finished  and  despatched  "  Le  Secret,"  and  was 
open  to  social  enjoyment,  came  a  visit  of  five  days  from 
the  only  sister  of  that  precious  Blanche,  of  whom  you 

have  so  often  heard  me  speak.    Mrs.  R a  widow,  alas  ! 

and  the  mother  of  eight  wonderfully  handsome  and 
clever  creatures.  Two  and  twenty  years  ago  this  dear 
Augusta  and  I  were  great  friends.  Then  she  went  to 
India,  married  most  happily  —  was  a  "  queen  of  society  " 
at  Calcutta  for  many  years.  Delightful  to  say,  our  very 
different  lives  had  brought  about  no  estrangement  what- 
ever —  we  found  that  we  suited  each  other  just  as  we 
used  to  do,  and  actually  ended  by  seeing  very  little  change 
even  in  the  outward  woman  ! !  It  is  curious  indeed  how 
to  the  eye  of  familiar  affection  the  former  young  face 
shows  again  through  the  veil  of  the  present  old  one. 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

BARMOUTH,  NORTH  WALES,  Aug.  9,  1867. 

I  find  that  I  don't  get  on  much  with  my  writing  unless 
I  am  alone.  I  regret  to  feel  my  capability  of  abstraction 
diminished,  but  my  blessed  mode  of  life  has  the  one  draw- 
back of  somewhat  unfitting  me  for  any  other.  Tuesday 
I  was  so  sharp  and  well  —  off  to  my  old  woman,  and 
walked  the  four  and  a  half  miles  in  no  time.  She  is 
doing  so  well.  I  positively  don't  know  what  I  am  to  do 
with  the  poor  people  here  —  the  sick  poor,  I  mean,  who 
want  nourishment.  My  poor  navvy  I  am  obliged  to  begin 
with  again  —  he  has  boils,  which  require  a  little  good 
food,  I  am  sure,  and  till  he  can  work  for  it  he  is  penniless. 
The  medicines  for  the  old  woman  are  expensive.  And 
the  piteous  thing  is,  the  people  fancy  I  can  do  something 
for  their  cases,  and  I  tell  them  in  vain  that  I  have  no 


360  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

medical  knowledge.  Oh,  that  I  had  money  for  these  poor 
souls !  [Speaking  of  a  spendthrift.]  Poor  fellow !  Life 
is  a  very  poor  thing  when  the  part  believes  itself  the 
whole,  and  a  man  looks  upon  heaven  and  earth  as  existing 
to  supply  him  with  pleasures  and  amusements  —  this  is 
what  the  grossly  selfish  do.  The  poorer  the  intellect,  the 
less  the  perception  that  the  unit  is  not  the  whole.  There 
is  a  word  that  expresses  briefly  the  very  spirit  of  Christian 
teaching  —  altruism.  Comte  was  not  a  Christian,  but 
every  Christian  may  thank  him  for  the  word.  Oh,  for 
more  altruism  —  more  "  looking  on  the  things  of  others," 
"  loving  others  as  ourself ."  It  is  matter  of  thankfulness 

to  be  able  to  see  the  beauty  of  this.     But could  not, 

poor  fellow,  any  more  than  I  could  be  a  mathematician. 
...  I  am  interested  in  every  word  you  tell  me,  though  I 
don't  comment,  and  go  on  thinking  aloud  to  you  just  as  it 
happens. 

February  24,  1868. 

[She  and  her  husband  called  on  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewes.] 
We  found  them  in,  and  so  cordial !  Her  hands  were  cold 
as  death,  and  she  was  not  well.  She  is  writing,  which  al- 
ways exhausts  her.  ...  In  going  away,  I  saw  in  her  dear 
eyes  that  I  might  kiss  her,  and  I  can't  tell  you  how  kindly 
she  put  her  arms  about  me.  She  is  delightful  —  so  gentle 
and  tender. 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Loomis. 

NEWTON  PLACE,  KESWICK,  May  10,  1868. 

It  was  a  true  pleasure  to  see  your  handwriting  on  the 
28th  of  February,  and  I  almost  wish  I  had  replied  at 
once ;  followed  that  impulse  to  write,  which  if  once 
checked  is  apt  to  die  down,  and  hence  great  gaps  of  si- 
lence between  those  who  really  care  much  for  each  other. 
I  rejoice,  we  rejoice,  to  have  so  good  an  account  of  your 
health,  and  we  take  a  sincere  interest  in  all  you  tell  us  of 
your  family  life  and  your  new  home.  .  .  .  Now  I  am 
going  to  leave  all  allusions  to  general  subjects,  to  politics, 


PEN  PORTRAITS.  361 

literature,  and  the  great  throbs  and  heavings  of  opinion  in 
your  country  and  ours,  to  my  dear  husband,  who  will  say 
more  in  a  few  words  than  I  in  so  many  pages.  I  am 
going  as  usual  to  write  you  a  mere  woman's  chit-chat 
about  persons  and  private  interests.  Not  that  I  lack  sym- 
pathy with  those  other  wider  subjects,  but  I  have  not 
energy  to  write  about  them,  and  besides,  we  have  not 
written  to  each  other  for  so  long  a  time.  I  want  to  take 
a  retrospective  glance  at  our  quiet  life.  We  so  much  like 
hearing  your  personal  history,  I  am  sure  you  will  not  be 
indifferent  to  ours.  On  the  2d  of  April  settled  ourselves 
down  at  a  Welsh  bathing-place  that  my  dear  one  has 
spoken  of  in  "Thorndale,"  though  he  had  never  seen  it  till 
last  year.  It  had  many  attractions  —  a  less  wet  climate 
than  that  of  Cumberland,  lovely  mountain  and  river  scen- 
ery, and  fine  sands,  though  not  a  grand  sea  —  too  land- 
locked and  calm.  There  all  the  country  people  speak 
Welsh,  but  it  so  happened  that  I  have  more  to  do  with 
them  than  I  have  here,  where  indeed  there  are  no  poor. 
.  .  .  The  Established  Church  is  comparatively  a  dead  let- 
ter in  Wales.  You  should,  however,  have  seen  how  the 
Voluntary  principle  builds  and  flourishes  there !  But 
what  was  even  more  serious,  the  doctors  in  the  neighbour- 
hood drank  even  more  than ,  and  here  was  no  Volun- 
tary principle  to  come  to  the  rescue  !  This  led  to  my 
having  a  few  patients.  My  father  was  a  physician,  and  I 
have  just  a  little  common-sense,  simple  knowledge.  Any- 
how, I  had  there  the  supreme  delight  of  feeling  that  I  had 
been  of  some  little  use  in  alleviating  pain.  The  Welsh 
have  great  faith  in  an  irregular  practitioner !  Then  we 
were  lodging  with  such  a  dear  woman,  one  of  the  loveliest 
specimens  of  human  nature,  and  thoroughly  refined, 
though  she  could  neither  read  nor  write.  The  Welsh, 
like  the  Highlanders  and  other  Celts,  have  often  a  native 
charm  of  exquisite  politeness  and  tact,  a  sort  of  poetic  in- 
sight into  the  relations  of  persons  and  things,  which  makes 


362  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

them  very  pleasant  to  deal  with.  We  were  with  this 
sweet  woman  for  seven  months,  and  now  she  keeps  up  a 
correspondence  with  us  through  the  medium  of  her  little 
ten-year-old  daughter's  pen,  and  wonderful  the  spelling  is, 
but  very  simple  and  pretty  the  idioms.  To  dwellers 
in  tents  such  as  we  are,  the  finding  mental  and  moral  ex- 
cellence in  a  landlady  is  an  immense  point.  That  is  one 
reason  why  we  so  much  like  returning  here.  I  thor- 
oughly appreciate  the  freedom  from  care,  and  above  all 
the  never  having  to  train  and  find  fault,  which  the  mis- 
tress of  a  small  household  would  inevitably  have  to  do  in 
these  transitory  days,  when  servants  still  exist,  but  with- 
out any  of  the  old  traditions  of  duty  which  used  to  make 
the  tie  between  them  and  their  master  so  strong.  The 
very  word  master  is  hardly  ever  heard,  except  indeed  in 
Wales.  My  dear  mother  remembered  that  former  state 
of  things  in  all  its  perfection.  In  her  home  the  old  but- 
ler, housekeeper,  ladies'  maids,  and  the  rest  lived  thirty, 
forty  years  —  lived,  in  short,  all  their  lives.  There  was 
a  beauty  in  it,  of  course,  as  there  is  in  every  epoch.  But 
progress,  that  brings  so  much,  must  take  away  too  —  the 
former  things  have  passed  away,  and  it  is  vain  to  look 
back  regretfully  —  let  us  go  on  to  the  cooperative  condi- 
tion, and  hope  the  best !  Meanwhile,  we  are  very  happy 
in  our  tent  life  —  but  I  must  love  the  people  I  come  in 
contact  with,  and  I  do  here  love  the  gentle,  admirable 
woman  who  has  husband  and  six  children  in  the  lower 
part  of  the  house,  entirely  apart  and  out  of  our  way ;  at- 
tends to  them  faithfully,  and  yet  cooks  very  nicely  for  us, 
while  we  are  waited  upon  by  her  eldest  daughter,  Ruth,  a 
modest,  obliging,  round-faced  English  girl,  of  a  very  satis- 
factory type.  My  great  friend  is  a  dear  old  woman  of 
ninety-eight,  who  lives  all  alone  in  a  poor  little  cottage, 
and  is  as  regards  intelligence  and  even  the  power  of  min- 
istering to  her  own  small  wants,  in  the  prime  of  life.  I 
am  very  fond  of  that  uncultured  class,  with  their  sincerity 


PEN  PORTRAITS.  363 

and  reality.  From  Wales  we  went  on  the  5th  of  Novem- 
ber to  Edinburgh,  where  we  have  several  very  dear  and 
very  delightful  friends,  one  of  the  most  intimate  a  fervent 
Roman  Catholic.  At  her  house  we  constantly  met  Jesuit 
fathers,  who  are  really  working  their  way  wonderfully  in 
Presbyterian  Scotland.  Perhaps  not  wonderfully  —  for 
they  are  exceedingly  active,  and  this  is  a  day  of  violent 
reactions.  In  Edinburgh  we  were  quite  sociable,  dined 
out,  and  met  several  interesting  people,  to  say  nothing  of 
seeing  beloved  friends  constantly  and  familiarly.  You 
may  remember,  perhaps,  my  speaking  to  you  of  Mr. 
Thomas  Constable  as  one  whom  I  should  particularly  wish 
you  to  know  if  you  went  to  Edinburgh.  I  must  tell  you 
what  he  did  last  summer.  The  Constables  were  all  spend- 
ing it  in  Switzerland,  and  for  a  time  took  up  their  quarters 
at  Pension  Crochet,  Bex.  There  they  observed  a  very  un- 
happy, ungenial-looking  man,  who  suffered  from  his  eyes 
evidently,  and  spoke  to  no  one.  Touched  by  his  appar- 
ent isolation,  Mr.  Constable  accosted  him.  The  reply  was 
a  hand  raised  to  the  ear,  and  the  words,  "  I  hear  nothing." 
This  only  excited  Mr.  Constable's  compassionate  feeling 
further,  and  his  next  move  was  to  ask  (in  writing)  the 
solitary  man  to  drive  with  him  and  his  large,  cheerful 
family  party.  This  was  declined,  on  the  plea  that  his 
infirmities  made  him  a  miserable  companion.  Nothing 
daunted,  Mr.  Constable  begged  to  be  taught  the  sign- 
language  of  which  this  stranger  made  use.  This  done,  he 
could  communicate  more  freely.  By  and  by  the  poor 
man's  heart  melted,  and  he  told  Mr.  Constable  his  whole 
story  —  a  wretched  one  it  was.  This  poor  stone-deaf  man 
was  an  Austrian,  of  high  family  and  connections,  but  a 
bankrupt  and  an  exile.  His  deafness  had  greatly  inter- 
fered with  his  prospects  in  life,  and  he  represented  him- 
self as  always  having  been  wayward  and  impracticable. 
However,  he  had  married  a  very  beautiful  woman,  and 
might  have  gone  on  pretty  well,  had  he  not  resolved,  con- 


364  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

trary  to  the  entreaties  of  his  family,  to  embark  all  his 
fortune  and  his  wife's  fortune  in  a  speculation  —  which 
utterly  failed.  There  had  been  faults,  as  well  as  this 
folly,  but  only  such  as  are,  I  suppose,  too  current  in  Vien- 
nese society.  However,  backed  by  poverty,  these  faults 

looked  very  grave.    The  head  of  the  family,  a  Count , 

volunteered  to  support  the  wife  and  daughters,  provided 
the  bankrupt  father  left  the  country  ;  and  finally  the 
family  man  of  business  took  him  to  that  cheap  Swiss  pen- 
sion^ and  left  him  there,  saying  that  should  he  find  that 
mode  of  life  intolerable,  "  the  lake  of  Geneva  was  near  at 
hand."  Alone,  uncared-for,  a  hopeless  bankrupt  and  ex- 
ile, having  estranged  all  his  friends  and  his  wife,  deaf,  en- 
tirely deaf,  and  nearly  blind  —  this  man  had  stood  hours 
on  the  bridge  of  St.  Maurice,  but  had  not  the  nerve  to 
plunge,  he  said,  much  as  he  desired  to  die.  For  a  month, 
Mr.  Constable  did  all  he  could  to  comfort  him ;  then, 
when  the  family  were  on  the  point  of  leaving  for  Thun, 
the  poor  man  burst  out :  "  What  shall  I  do  when  you  are 
gone!"  "Come  and  stay  with  us  there  for  a  month." 
This  he  declined  —  he  said  that  in  a  life  so  miserable  as 
his  must  be  it  was  better  not  to  have  such  gleams  of  com- 
parative light.  But  evidently  he  felt  the  approaching 
parting.  One  day,  when  Mr.  Constable  had  again  pressed 
him  to  visit  them  at  Thun,  with  the  same  result,  he  said  : 
"  Very  well,  then,  come  and  stay  with  us  altogether ! " 
"What  do  you  mean?"  "Come  and  stay  with  us  for 
good  and  all."  "  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  I  do  not 
understand."  "Come  and  stay  with  us  till  you  die," 
said  my  beloved  friend.  The  count  burst  into  tears. 
He  stood  out  bravely  —  he  was  a  bad  man,  he  said.  "  I 
don't  mind,"  was  the  reply,  "you  are  unhappy."  "He 
was  a  Catholic  "  —  that  Mr.  Constable  minded  much  less. 
"  Wife  and  family  would  object,"  —  Mr.  Constable  would 
fetch  them,  and  he  would  see.  (His  wife  and  he  are  one 
soul,  the  children  worthy  of  their  parents.)  Finally,  after 


PEN  PORTRAITS.  365 

wintering  with  them  at  Nice,  this  poor  man  is  at  this  mo- 
ment a  much  loved  member  of  their  charming  Scotch 
home.  He  seems  quite  a  changed  creature,  and  his  de- 
voted love  to  that  man  who  was  indeed  a  "  refuge  from 
the  storm"  is  most  touching.  We  hope  they  will  be 
coming  to  this  neighbourhood  by  and  by.  This  is  a  very 
long  story  about  strangers  —  but  I  think  you  will  under- 
stand my  temptation  to  tell  it.  I  thank  God  for  having 
such  a  friend  as  Mr.  Constable.  Now  I  must  go  to  bed, 
and  I  shall  finish  to-morrow.  I  hope  you  will  allow  that 
I  am  writing  more  legibly  —  at  all  events,  I  have  tried. 
Good-night,  dear  far-away  friends  in  Minnesota ! 

May  11.  Such  a  sweet,  mild  spring  morning  —  but 
rather  gray.  How  I  should  like  to  see  your  brilliant  sun- 
shine. Sometimes  William  and  I  amuse  ourselves  with 
planning  a  trip  to  America,  but  we  know  all  the  while  we 
are  only  playing  with  our  own  fancies.  Thank  God,  he  is 
well  —  bright  and  cheerful  —  not  writing  much  in  "  Black- 
wood,"  but  there  will  be  an  article  by  and  by  on  Lewes' 
"  History  of  Philosophy,"  and  also  on  your  Motley's  two 
last  volumes.  We  have  enjoyed  Holmes's  "Guardian 
Angel  "  very  much.  Do  you  in  America  hold  George  Eliot 
the  very  queen  of  novelists  ?  She  is  just  about  to  publish 
a  long  poem,  and  from  the  lines  that  head  several  of  the 
chapters  of  "  Felix  Holt "  one  knows  her  to  be  a  true  poet. 
.  .  .  Marriage  seems  to  be  becoming  more  and  more  rare 
in  England  ;  there  is  an  unhealthy  horror  of  poverty  and 
"  loss  of  position  "  which  nips  many  a  young  hope.  Now 
you  will  not  think  —  will  you  —  that  it  is  from  want  of 
attentive  interest  to  every  part  of  your  letter  that  I  have 
commented  so  little  upon  it.  I  wish  you  would  write 
again,  rather  sooner  this  time.  I  wish  I  had  dried  an 
English  primrose  to  send  with  a  kiss  on  it  to  Daisy.  I 
wish  that  you  could  see  our  green,  peaceful  valley,  with  its 
lakes  and  quiet  hills  —  the  highest  only  3000  feet.  By 
the  way,  I  wandered  with  the  Cottons  over  lonely  hills  for 


366  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

three  hours  the  other  day,  and  was  not  over-tired.  Thank 
God,  I  think  William  is  well  —  you  know  what  this  is  for 
me.  Your  life  sounds  quite  perfect,  with  each  other,  your 
darlings,  and  your  definite  and  lofty  work.  May  you 
have  .health  to  enjoy  it  fully. 

W.  S.  to  Same. 

It  gave  us  very  great  pleasure  to  hear  from  you  again, 
and  especially  to  hear  so  charming  an  account  of  your  new 
abode.  What  a  climate  and  what  a  beautiful  country 
you  have  lighted  on !  Your  description  kindled  a  momen- 
tary desire  to  see  your  magnificent  river,  with  its  grand 
bluffs,  and  its  rich  and  picturesque  valleys.  But  we  must 
content  ourselves  with  our  little  lakes  and  miniature 
mountains.  And  we  have  had  so  exquisite  a  spring  that 
so  far  as  scenery  is  concerned  we  ought  to  be  content.  I 
have  never  seen  our  Borrowdale  and  all  its  surroundings 
look  more  beautiful  than  through  this  last  month.  How 
cities  spring  up  with  you  !  We  say  here,  we  almost  see 
the  trees  grow  —  you  might  say  that  you  almost  see  cities 
grow.  The  political  life  of  the  future  lies  mainly  with 
you.  Democracy,  with  a  glorious  region  of  the  earth  to 
expand  itself  in  —  what  will  it  do  ?  We  ask  the  question, 
and  try  to  look  ahead.  But  I  am  afraid  we  cannot  see 
very  distinctly. 

I  feel  an  unabated  interest  in  your  politics,  although  ours 
have  lately  become  very  exciting.  I  cannot  understand 
altogether  the  policy  of  your  great  Republican  party  in 
its  conduct  toward  the  South.  Perhaps  at  this  distance, 
with  conflicting  facts  put  before  one,  it  is  impossible  to 
get  a  clear  view  of  the  question.  This  unfortunate  Presi- 
dent Johnson,  with  all  his  blundering  and  foolish  obstina- 
cies, seems  to  have  had  a  real  desire  to  cement  the  union 
between  the  North  and  South,  while  the  Republican  party 
seems  to  be  solicitous  only  for  the  triumph  of  its  own 
ideas  —  good  no  doubt  in  the  main,  but  pushed  on  regard* 


PEN  PORTRAITS.  367 

less  of  the  feelings  of  the  South,  or  of  the  necessity  to  con- 
ciliate. 

But  as  to  the  conduct  of  political  parties,  we  in  Eng- 
land have  lately  been  giving  to  the  world  one  of  the 
strangest  exhibitions.  Our  conservative  party  has  had 
one  distinguishing  tenet  —  dread  of  democracy.  They 
came  into  power,  and  they  have  pushed  us  toward  democ- 
racy at  a  rate  which  is  alarming  to  old  liberals.  We  are 
all  speculating  as  to  what  the  new  constituencies  will  do 
—  what  measures  they  will  clamour  for  —  and  now  before 
these  new  constituencies  can  elect  their  House  of  Parlia- 
ment, the  question  of  the  Irish  Church  has  emerged  from 
the  region  of  mere  speculation  and  controversial  politics, 
and  presents  itself  as  something  to  be  done.  One  thing 
is  very  noticeable  —  that  whereas  the  speakers  in  the 
House  of  Commons  uniformly  draw  a  broad  distinction 
between  the  English  Protestant  Church  and  the  Irish, 
and  are  loud  in  asserting  their  fidelity  to  the  former  even 
when  they  are  most  violent  against  the  latter  —  yet  out- 
side the  House,  and  amongst  the  clergy  in  particular, 
there  is  a  disposition  to  regard  the  attack  upon  the  Irish 
as  an  attack  also  upon  the  English  Establishment.  In 
spite  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  assertions,  and  the  whole  body 
of  Whigs,  they  insist  upon  it  that  the  real  question  at 
issue  is  that  between  Establishments  and  the  Voluntary 
principle.  This  belongs  in  part  to  the  ordinary  tactics  of 
controversy.  Persuade  the  English  people  that  their  own 
Church  is  bound  up  with  the  fate  of  the  Irish  and  the 
Irish  Church  is  safe  enough  at  present.  But  there  is 
more  in  it  than  this.  The  dissensions  in  our  own  Church, 
the  ritualism  and  the  rationalism  that  have  grown  up  in 
it,  have  brought  a  sense  of  insecurity  to  churchmen  them- 
selves. They  know  that  here  as  elsewhere  union  is 
strength  and  disunion  weakness.  Their  own  dissensions 
will  give  an  opening  to  the  Voluntary  principle,  and  if 
this  principle  is  deliberately  adopted  for  Ireland,  the  ex- 


368  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

ample  may  spread.  So  the  cry  of  "  The  Church  is  in 
danger  "  is  not  wholly  the  mere  war-cry  of  a  party,  as  it 
has  often  been,  but  speaks  of  a  rational  solicitude  for  the 
future.  I  myself  look  upon  the  Voluntary  principle  as 
I  look  upon  Democracy,  as  the  inevitable  —  but  I  have 
never  been  anxious  to  expedite  the  coming  of  either  of 
them.  Every  year  people  read  more  and  think  more  than 
they  did,  and  I  want  this  kind  of  quiet  progress  to  go  on 
and  at  least  accompany  our  organic  changes. 

I  am  prosing  on  about  matters  perhaps  as  familiar  to 
yourself  as  they  are  on  this  side  of  the  water.  You  in 
Minnesota  are  as  much  within  hearing  of  London  and 
Paris  as  we  here  in  Cumberland.  I  only  know  that  when- 
ever you  touch  upon  your  politics  you  interest  me  in- 
tensely. Do  you  read  the  French  review,  "  La  Revue  des 
Deux  Mondes  "  ?  I  gather  more  of  the  general  politics  of 
the  world  from  that  periodical  than  from  any  other  source. 
Do  you  find  time  to  write  amongst  your  many  avocations  ? 
or  do  you  feel,  as  I  am  sure  I  should,  that  your  public  ad- 
dresses were  quite  enough  to  occupy  your  time  ?  I  my- 
self find  writing  more  and  more  distasteful,  more  and 
more  laborious,  but  I  am  happy  to  say  that  I  do  not  en- 
joy books  less  than  ever,  and  that  I  reflect  on  what  I  read 
with  perhaps  more  pertinacity  than  at  any  other  time  of 
my  life.  Your  letter  gave  me  a  delightful  impression  of 
an  active,  bright,  cheerful  existence,  with  great  duties  and 
many  small  pleasures.  I  think  I  may  safely  put  you  and 
Mrs.  Loomis  in  the  category  of  the  happy  (pray  give  my 
kind  regards  to  her  and  my  love  to  Daisy)  -=—  and  we  on 
our  side,  we  too  would  write  ourselves  down  in  the  cate- 
gory of  the  happy,  or  at  least  of  the  contented.  When 
we  are  alone  here  together  I  often  say  that  my  ideal  of 
life  is  accomplished  —  books  —  country  —  solitude  —  and 
society  that  is  compatible  with  much  solitude.  To  be 
sure,  I  do  nothing.  I  am  very  useless  —  but  this  is  from 
a  lack  of  power,  not  from  a  disposition  to  fold  my  arms 


PEN  PORTRAITS.  369 

in  mere  reflective  indolence.  I  hope  we  shall  hear  again 
from  you  at  no  very  long  interval,  and  that  you  may  con- 
tinue to  have  your  health,  and  that  we  may  be  both  still 
giving  good  accounts  of  our  respective  conditions. 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

NEWTON  PLACE,  May,  1868. 

...  To  tell  you  the  loveliness  of  this  country  to-day  is 
impossible.  We  have  had  dull,  misty,  blurred  kind  of 
days,  but  yesterday  and  all  last  night  it  rained,  and  to-day 
Nature  is  in  an  ecstasy.  I  sit  with  open  window,  and  the 
cuckoo's  "wandering  voice"  is  wafted  in  on  the  softest 
breezes.  ...  I  returned  grave  and  possibly  a  little  sad. 
For,  oh,  my  chick,  to  whom  I  confide  mysteries,  there  are 
moods  when  the  spirit  of  joy  will  evade  joyous  circum- 
stances, and  when  we  are  surrounded  by  all  that  is  pleas- 
ant the  heart  in  its  immense  solitude  will  take  to  crying, 
"  It  is  naught,"  while  the  lips  smile  falsely  on.  You  say 
I  am  one  of  the  cheerful,  and  I  thank  Heaven  for  that  in- 
estimable gift,  animal  spirits.  But  I  think  I  know  every 
phase  of  discontent,  gloom,  unreasonableness,  aching  self- 
love,  and  the  rest,  —  which  make  the  worst  part  of  our 
low  spirits  —  to  say  nothing  of  the  burthen  of  "  all  the 
unintelligible  world,"  and  the  questions  to  which  there  is 
no  replying. 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Loomis. 

NEWTON  PLACE,  Aug.  23,  1868. 

.  .  .  Your  description  of  your  country  and  mode  of 
life  is  most  interesting,  and  I  can  quite  believe  that 
your  delight  in  your  handsome  horses  and  all  the  pleasure 
and  variety  they  afford  you  is  much  enhanced  by  your 
entering  into  such  close  personal  relations  with  them  — 
winning  their  affections  and  giving  yours  —  for  one  learns 
to  love  what  one  ministers  to.  I  am  sure  that  many  of 
us  in  the  old  country  would  be  happier  for  having  more 


370  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

varied  labor,  and  I  think  I  see  the  dawn  of  great  changes 
in  that  direction.  .  .  .  We  have  had  visits  from  some  dear 
Edinburgh  friends,  among  them  a  charming  Mrs.  Stirling 
and  her  husband.  She  is  large  minded  and  hearted  — 
one  to  whom  your  Emerson  took  a  great  liking  when  in 
Edinburgh,  and  that  I  consider  a  feather  in  any  one's 
cap.  How  intensely  I  admired  and  revelled  in  his  essays 
and  some  of  his  poems  in  my  younger  days.  I  think  I 
should  now  —  but  they  are  packed  away  with  all  our 
books,  waiting  to  be  arranged  in  the  home  —  we  shall,  I 
suspect,  never  fin$.  The  sentence  looks  sad,  as  all  sen- 
tences perhaps  do  that  include  the  word  "never."  But 
I  do  not  write  it  with  any  actual  sadness.  Our  wander- 
ing mode  of  life  has  many  advantages.  .  .  .  We  are 
alone  now,  and  General  and  Mrs.  Cotton  have  left  the 
neighbourhood  —  the  old  loving  friendship  closer  and 
warmer,  thank  Heaven,  than  ever.  But  William  is  so 
happy  when  alone  —  that  is  Ms  ideal.  Something  is 
growing,  I  think,  about  his  desk  —  but,  as  I  believe  I  said 
before,  the  critic  is  almost  too  strong  for  the  author  ;  and 
besides,  he  is  dealing  with  subjects  where  if  you  will  not 
assume  you  end  by  denying,  and  to  his  religious  nature 
that  is  not  easy.  Oh,  the  mystery  of  it  all  !  I  wonder 
whether  you  will  take  any  interest  in  the  proceedings  of 
our  British  Association,  and  in  Dr.  Hooker's  inaugural  ad- 
dress. No  one  can  escape  some  modification  of  dogmatic 
theology  nowadays.  Happy  they  who  retain  the  spirit 
and  let  the  letter  go  most  easily !  I  have  been  much  in- 
terested by  one  of  George  Macdonald's  last  books.  "  Rob- 
ert Falconer."  It  must  a  good  deal  horrify  the  stern 
Calvinist  ministers  of  Scotland  ;  yet,  in  the  Establishment 
at  all  events,  convictions  are  not  so  rigid  nowadays ;  it  is 
the  Free  Church  that  is  still  the  stronghold  of  narrow  and 
intense  dogmatism.  I  confess  that  George  Macdonald's 
position  logically  does  not  appear  to  me  tenable  —  but  "  I 
would  that  I  were  altogether  such  a  one  as  he  is  !  "  I  must 


PEN  PORTRAITS.  371 

tell  you  that  dearest  Mr.  Constable  came  out  for  a  night 
one  exquisite  May  day,  bringing  his  Austrian  with  him. 
To  see  the  care  the  tall,"powerful,  noble-looking  man  takes 
of  the  poor,  stone-deaf,  half -blind,  helpless  exile !  He  is 
like  a  mother  with  some  child  that  she  believes  perfection. 
For  the  best  part  of  it  is,  he  has  got  out  of  their  kindness 
to  love  this  little  count.  My  dear  child  is  now  staying 
with  the  Constables  at  their  charming  new  house  near  Ed- 
inburgh, and  says  that  it  is  indescribably  beautiful  to  see 
the  tenderness  with  which  they  all  treat  their  guest.  For- 
tunately for  him  he  has  some  literary  talent,  and  is  now 
writing  a  romance.  And  I  am  translating  it  for  him.  I 
have  no  paying  work  on  hand,  I  'm  rather  sorry  to  say, 
and  it  is  to  me  a  very  great  pleasure  to  be  of  any  possible 
service  to  a  friend  of  my  beloved  Mr.  Constable.  Besides, 
I  like  a  task.  I  think  it  is  an  interesting  story,  but  it  is 
very  difficult  for  a  translator  to  judge.  You  are  quite  right 
—  it  would  be  death  to  domestic  happiness  to  introduce  a 
stranger  into  a  very  small  home  circle  —  though  I  really 
believe  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Constable  could  have  done  even  that 
out  of  the  intense  pitifulness  and  lovingness  of  their  na- 
tures. I  wonder  whether  you  have  read  George  Eliot's 
very  remarkable  poem,  "  The  Spanish  Gypsy,"  and  what 
you  have  thought  of  it.  It  is  a  marvel  of  intellect,  and 
full  of  exquisite  passages,  but  —  I  think  there  is  a  but, 
and  that  it  does  not  sweep  one  away  as  poetry  should,  as 
I  found  "  Aurora  Leigh  "  did.  I  read  "  The  Spanish 
Gypsy  "  dry-eyed. 

W.  S.  to  Same. 

.  .  .  The  last  interesting  thing  amongst  us  is  the  ad- 
dress of  the  President  of  the  British  Association,  Dr. 
Hooker,  the  great  botanist.  I  dare  say  it  will  be  in  your 
hands  by  the  time  this  reaches  you.  If  you  read  it,  you 
will  find  that  the  doings  of  the  prehistoric  archaeologist 
take  the  prominent  place.  You  will  be  struck  too  by  the 


372  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

bold  tone  which  the  man  of  science  now  takes  on  topics 
where  science  and  the  Old  Testament  are  thought  to  be 
at  variance.  I  know  that  this  will  not  distress  you  —  it 
ought  not  to  distress  any  intelligent  man.  Perhaps  even 
you  will  not  be  in  the  least  surprised  by  it.  Only  one  who 
knows  England  —  who  knows  the  stolid,  unenthusiastic, 
but  dogged  prejudice  of  our  well-dressed  churchmen  and 
church  women,  would  be  aware  that  there  is  any  courage 
requisite  to  say  what  Hooker  has  said.  Read  some  of  the 
reports  of  our  Convocation,  especially  those  of  the  Lower 
House  —  read  them  in  their  eternal  battle  with  Colenso 
—  and  you  will  understand  where  English  churchmen  are 
in  their  course  of  development. 

I  have  nothing  to  say  of  myself,  or  I  would  willingly 
say  it.  I  am  not  idle,  in  one  sense  —  I  do  the  best  I  can 
by  reading  and  thinking  to  get  some  idea  of  things  in  gen- 
eral —  physiology  and  other  'ologies  I  strive  to  get  some 
hold  of  —  but  in  the  way  of  writing  I  do  nothing,  nor  feel 
that  I  am  capable  of  doing  anything.  The  brain  works, 
but  to  no  apparent  result.  You  do  as  well  as  think,  and 
therefore  lead  a  far  more  perfect  life.  May  it  last  long, 
in  its  cheerful  and  wise  activity. 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

Oct.  19,  1868. 

[Anxious  about  her  husband's  health.]  My  fragile  only 
one  !  Oh,  it  is  a  very  fearful  thing  to  have  an  only  one  ! 

Happy  are  wives  who  are  mothers  ! 

Oct.  1868. 

Oh,  the  solemn,  the  sad,  the  suffering  days  that  must 

come  !     I  was  saying  to  M A that  I  sometimes 

feared  that  these,  which  are  all  praise  or  pleasure,  might 
unfit  me  for  them ;  and  she  said  in  her  gentle,  wise  way  : 
"  It  is  the  tree  that  has  stood  in  richest  soil  and  brightest 
sunshine  that  best  bears  the  frost."  God  give  me  now  the 
gift  of  thankfulness ! 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

BESIDE  THE   SEA. 

THE  little  book  made  up  in  later  years  by  Mrs.  Wil- 
lett,  "  Lines  by  L.  C.  S.,"  contains  these  verses,  dated 
"  Feb.  24,  1869,  Brighton." 

In  the  noble  band  of  workers 

Seems  no  place  for  such  as  I  ; 
They  have  faith  where  I  have  yearning, 

They  can  teach  where  I  but  sigh  ; 
They  can  point  the  road  distinctly, 

Where  for  me  the  shadows  lie. 

Lofty  purpose,  high  endeavour, 

These  are  not  ordained  for  me  ; 
Wayside  flower  may  strive  its  utmost, 

It  can  ne'er  become  a  tree,  — 
Yet  a  child  may  laugh  to  gather, 

And  a  sick  man  smile  to  see. 

And  I,  too,  in  God's  creation, 

Have  my  little  proper  part ; 
He  must  mean  some  service  surely 

For  weak  hand  and  timid  heart, 
Transient  joys  for  my  diffusing, 

For  my  healing,  transient  smart. 

Just  to  fling  a  ray  of  comfort 

O'er  life's  downcast,  dreary  ways  ! 

Just  to  fan  a  better  impulse 
By  a  full  and  ready  praise  ; 

Pitying  where  I  may  not  succour, 
Loving  where  I  cannot  raise  ! 


374  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

We  had  debated  with  ourselves  whether  to  spend  the 
following  summer  in  Derbyshire  or  Cornwall ;  but  I  had 
a  longing  to  see  the  Atlantic  break  on  the  Bude  shore, 
having  read  of  the  waves  rising  there  to  an  unusual 
height ;  and  my  husband,  to  whose  more  occupied  mind 
place  was  less  important,  allowed  my  preference  to  pre- 
vail. It  was  a  long  journey  to  take  to  a  spot  quite  un- 
known to  us,  where,  of  course,  we  should  not  have  a  single 
acquaintance.  I  think  I  never  set  out  in  a  greater  ferment 
of  delight  than  on  that  bright  April  day !  But  Bude  is 
a  place  that  has  its  wrong  side,  "  a  bare,  sandy  common, 
and  an  ugly  canal ;  "  and  my  husband's  first  impression  of 
it,  given  in  a  letter  to  a  dear  niece,  was  "  that  a  more 
dreary  region  could  not  be  discovered  in  all  England," 
and  that,  "  had  he  fallen  upon  it  alone,  he  should  have 
been  off  like  a  shot  the  next  morning."  However,  a  little 
accident  that  befell  me  immediately  on  my  arrival  (the 
falling  of  a  sashless  window  on  my  hands)  so  distressed 
him  as  to  "  make  it  impossible  to  growl  at  the  place,"  and 
its  own  peculiar  charm  soon  asserted  itself.  Later  on  he 
writes  to  the  same  niece :  "  These  ground-swells  of  the 
Atlantic  will  spoil  me  for  any  other  seas.  On  the  coast  of 
Sussex  and  Kent  I  have  seen  grand  seas,  but  I  was 
blinded  or  blown  away  in  the  attempt  to  look  at  them, 
and  the  waves  were  generally  dark  and  turbid.  On  this 
coast  I  have  seen  waves  as  lustrous  and  clear  as  the  waters 
of  the  Lake  of  Geneva  rising  in  all  the  grand  forms  of  a 
storm." 

Our  small  abode  at  Bude  was  not  so  quiet  as  we  could 
have  wished,  but  William  at  once  set  about  writing  on  a 
subject  that  had  long  been  occupying  his  mind  :  "  Know- 
ing and  Feeling."  The  illusion  that,  as  I  take  up  one 
pocket-book  after  another,  makes  the  year  therein  re- 
corded seem  of  all  our  years  the  best,  comes  over  me 


BESIDE   THE  SEA.  375 

si?":  I  dwell  on  our  Bude  life.     The  bold  cliffs, 

where  always  there  was  a  renovating  breeze,  short  flower- 
filled  turf  for  our  feet,  and  a  glorious  semicircle  of  sea 
below  us,  where,  as  we  stood  or  sat  near  the  edge,  great 
gulls  would  conie  soaring  up  from  the  shore,  not  seeing  us 
till  close  by,  then  calmly  slant  off  —  their  wide  wings 
foam-white  in  the  sunshine ;  or  whence  we  watched  the 
ravens  that  had  their  nests  in  the  rocks  below  tumble  fan- 
tastically in  the  air,  —  how  these  things  delighted  him ! 
The  peaceful  days  were  all  made  up  of  thinking,  writing, 
and  of  four  short  rambles  on  common  or  shore.  He  took 
no  long  walks,  felt  no  inclination  for  them ;  but  we  heard 
that  the  air  of  the  place  often  disposed  to  lassitude,  and 
our  landlady  —  struck  at  first,  as  indeed  strangers  usually 
were,  with  his  look  of  fragility  —  told  me  that  she  and  her 
neighbors  noticed  a  marked  improvement  as  the  weeks 
went  on.  The  summer  brought  us  a  dear  young  niece ; 
and  General  and  Mrs.  Cotton,  whose  presence  in  Borrow- 
dale  had  been  a  delight  the  previous  summer,  now  spent 
three  weeks  at  Bude.  William,  very  busily  engaged  with 
his  own  thoughts  and  pen,  only  joined  in  one  excursion  — 
that  to  Tintagel.  In  a  letter  to  his  niece  Clara  he  says :  — 
"  I  was  very  glad  that  I  went.  It  was  a  kind  of  scen- 
ery somewhat  novel  to  me.  At  Tintagel  you  stand  on  a 
rock  —  500  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea  —  which  juts 
out,  and  enables  you  to  command  a  magnificent  view  of 
both  sides  of  this  beautiful  coast.  What  makes  the  chief 
charm  of  the  view  are  the  grand,  isolated  rocks  that  rise 
at  some  little  distance  from  the  shore  out  of  the  blue  sea. 
These  assume  various  shapes,  and  all  beautiful.  But  per- 
haps the  greatest  novelty  at  Tintagel  was  the  caves.  In 
one  of  these  the  greenest  of  ferns  had  grown  over  the  roof 
in  the  most  delectable  way,  and  the  color  of  the  rocks 
was  to  me  quite  surprising  —  all  the  colors  of  the  richest 
marbles  —  dark  red,  green,  yellow,  but  a  sort  of  dull,  deep 
purple  being  the  prevailing  tint.  In  another  cave  it  was 


376  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

not  the  colors  one  admired,  but  the  admirable  proportions, 
the  lofty  roof,  the  form  of  the  whole.  In  this  second 
cave  we  saw  a  spectacle  I  shall  never  forget.  The  cave 
led  through  to  the  ocean.  It  was  the  calmest  and  bright- 
est of  days,  but  there  was  a  ground  swell,  and  the  magnif- 
icence of  the  waves  as  they  filled  for  a  moment  the  whole 
entrance  to  the  cave,  then  dashed  up  the  spray  to  the  roof, 
was  something  to  remember  forever." 

From  the  10th  of  September  to  the  5th  of  January  we 
were  quite  alone,  and  the  little  desk  was  soon  permanently 
installed  in  the  joint  sitting-room.  As  usual,  I  have  no 
outward  events  to  record.  A  wonderfully  high  tide  had 
been  predicted  for  the  6th  of  October,  such  as  would  lay 
half  Bude  partially  under  water ;  but  there  was  no  wind 
that  night,  and  we  watched  the  calm  sea  flow  in  —  the  vil- 
lage lights  reflected  in  its  perfect  stillness  —  flow  in  and 
turn,  having  spread  no  further  than  at  the  September 
spring-tides.  I  confess  I  was  disappointed  ;  but  William, 
who  never  had  any  craving  for  the  abnormal,  was  heartily 
glad  that  the  low-lying  houses  should  escape  the  antici- 
pated discomfort.  One  day  we  saw  the  rocket  apparatus 
used,  but  only  in  the  way  of  practice.  This  was  a  novel 
sight  to  both,  and  a  great  interest.  The  sunsets  grew 
finer  as  autumn  advanced,  and  we  invariably  went  out  to 
watch  them.  Even  in  December  we  could  sit  in  the  shel' 
ter  of  the  rocks  without  any  fear  of  chill.  The  morning 
and  evening  hours  were  occupied  by  the  projected  treatise 
on  Psychology ;  I  used  sometimes  to  doubt  whether  the 
critic  would  ever  let  the  author  finish  it !  But  however 
intent  my  husband  might  be  on  this  or  other  abstruse  sub- 
jects, he  was  never  rendered  absent-minded,  never  so 
much  as  let  the  fire  go  out  while  he  was  writing,  and  the 
moment  the  pen  was  laid  down  the  brow  was  all  smooth- 
ness, the  eye  all  light,  and  he  as  ready  to  listen  to  any 
trifle  his  companion  might  have  to  impart  as  to  share  his 
own  trains  of  thought  with  her.  He  had  indeed  a  rare 


BESIDE   THE   SEA.  877 

gift  of  sympathy.  Even  trivial  things  told  to  him  seemed 
trivial  no  longer ;  while  as  to  the  higher  aspirations  and 
the  perplexities  they  bring,  these  spontaneously  took,  as 
it  were,  refuge  in  hie  mind  —  the  former  to  gain  strength 
and  support,  the  latter  a  tender  comprehension  that  al- 
ways lightened  if  it  could  not  always  remove. 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

BRIGHTON,  January  18,  1869. 

So  glad,  child  of  my  affections,  to  hear  of  all  your  en- 
joyments !  I  hope  your  stay  will  be  prolonged  a  little, 
and  that  you  will  have  a  little  peaceful  stay  at  the  Rec- 
tory, and  return  well  and  strengthened  for  trouble.  May 
it  be  nothing  worse  than  change  of  lodgings  —  but  I  don't 
underrate  that  annoyance,  remembering,  oh,  my  darling, 
oh,  so  well,  the  passionate  reluctance  one  had  in  youth  to 
certain  things,  the  feeling  that  they  were  intolerable,  and 
that  Heaven  and  Enrth  somehow  must  avert  them,  be- 
cause we  could  not  stand  them  —  and  so  !  But  you  are 
calmer  and  wiser  and  better  than  your  Zia  was  at  twenty- 
five.  Live  in  the  present,  all  you  can.  There  may  be 
some  bright  hour  in  circumstances  quite  close  at  hand.  I 
am  always  expecting  some  "  fairy  prince  "  for  my  chick. 
Yes  indeed,  power  and  wealth,  rank  and  state,  are  all  pre- 
cious possessions  —  it  were  folly  to  underrate  them.  But 
one  thing  is  certain:  to  those  who  have  them  they  are 
things  of  course  ;  to  those  who  have  them  not  they  are 
captivating  to  the  imagination.  Remembering,  however, 
the  millions  who  have  far  less  of  comfort,  graceful  appli- 
ances, pleasantnesses,  than  ou/selves  —  still  more,  remem- 
bering the  hundreds  of  thousands  tortured  with  actual 
want  —  one  comes  I  think  to  feel  rather  a  grateful  hum- 
ble wonder  that  so  much  should  have  been  bestowed  upon 
one,  than  a  longing  for  more.  One  thing  is  indisputable : 
the  chronic  mood  of  looking  longingly  at  what  we  have 
not,  or  thankfully  at  what  we  have,  realizes  two  very  dif- 


378  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

ferent  types  of  character.  And  we  certainly  can  encour- 
age the  one  or  the  other.  And  I  know  which  I  want  my 
darling  to  encourage  —  the  one  her  reason  approves.  I 
am  re-reading  that  marvellous  book,  Carlyle's  "  French 
Revolution."  Some  great  change  there  will  be  in  the 
structure  of  our  society.  The  pauperizing  of  some  classes, 
the  starving  of  others  out  of  their  very  humanity,  cannot 
go  on,  if  there  be  a  God  that  ruleth  the  earth  and  is  evolv- 
ing the  development  of  man.  .  .  . 

February  25,  1869. 

.  .  .  And  now,  with  her  nature  deepened  and  expanded 
by  years  of  beautiful  life,  and  companionship  with  a  high 
and  holy  nature,  I  do  believe,  dear,  that  she  is  a  perfect 
woman,  such  as  it  does  one  good  to  see,  still  more  to  be 
with.  For  me,  I  have  always  told  you  how  I  thank  God 
for  my  friends'  virtues.  Very  halting  will  my  walk  al- 
ways be,  very  blurred  my  good,  but  I  can  love  goodness, 
and  believe  in  a  standard  I  can  never  reach,  and  take 
some  comfort  in  thoughts  like  this :  — 

"  All  I  could  never  be, 

All  men  ignored  in  me, 
This  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the  pitcher  shaped." 

March  18,  1869. 

...  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  saw  William  look 
brighter  or  better  than  this  morning,  talking  to  me  of  the 
social  questions  that  interest  him  so  intensely.  These 
earthquakes  are  solemn  things,  are  they  not  ?  How  if 
England  should  have  to  suffer  as  other  countries  have 
done?  London  as  Lisbon?  I  do  believe  my  dear  one 
would  be  glad  to  be  blown  up  any  day,  provided,  the  great 
mass  of  pauperism  which  so  grieves  him  coming  to  the 
same  end,  society  might  be  inaugurated  upon  a  better 
basis. 

BUDE,  November  19,  1869. 

Wednesday.     Such  a  lovely  morning  —  brilliant  sun. 
shine  —  a  blue  satin  sea,  with    very  large  waves,  blue- 


BESIDE   THE  SEA.  379 

green,  and  as  they  break  their  spray  is  driven  back  by  a 
slight  land  wind,  like  the  hair  of  a  maenad.  Beautiful 
exceedingly !  On  such  days  as  this,  how  I  wish  poor 

dear were  here.     It  goes  to  my  heart  to  think  of 

her  as  unhappy,  but  I  do  not  see  how  it  can  be  otherwise 
till  something  arises  to  give  her  the  same  sense  of  occupa- 
tion and  energy  which  poor ,  his  constant  letters  and 

her  constant  efforts  for  him,  did.  Grief  is  so  complex  a 
thing.  He  was  not  certainly  the  pleasure  of  her  life,  but 
he  called  her  out  —  and  now  comes  a  blank.  The  better 
trained  women  of  the  future  will  have  their  sorrows,  but 
half  the  misery  our  generation  goes  through  is  lack  of 
pursuit,  unfitness  for  any  because  of  the  defective  mental 
training  we  have  had.  Suppose  now  there  was  something 

for  dear to  do  which  no  one  else  did  in  her  circle, 

and  for  which  they  all  were  dependent  upon  her  —  do  you 
not  feel  that  she  would  be  a  different  creature  ?  Lodging- 
house  life  is  very  unfavourable  to  us  all  in  this  respect.  A 
home,  be  it  ever  so  tiny,  gives  occupation.  As  things  are, 
change  of  scene  is  a  relief,  because  it  fills  up  time,  and 
keeps  off  the  consciousness  of  having  nothing  to  do.  So 
with  visiting ;  and  indeed  so  with  marriage  —  for  one 
case  of  real  sympathy  of  heart  and  soul,  there  are  at  least 
five,  I  should  say,  where  the  fuller  life  is  the  real  attrac- 
tion. There  is  a  better  time  coming  —  I  shall  not  see  it, 
but  I  am  glad  to  have  seen  its  dawn.  .  .  But,  my  sweet, 
I  don't  know  why  I  am  prosing  on  to  you  now  ;  you  must 
do  as  I  did  all  my  youth,  and  indeed  you  will  do  better, 
for  your  work  is  skilfully  done,  and  is  a  more  legitimate 
employment.  Still,  you  must  struggle  with  the  same 
sense  of  wasted  faculties  which  drove  me  to  seek  unworthy 
excitement  —  till  one  of  two  things  happens.  Oh,  I  will 
think  only  of  one,  some  really  happy  marriage — some- 
body —  not  too  rich  —  to  live  for,  and  so  to  have  all  your 
sense  and  sweetness  thoroughly  called  out  and  rewarded. 
I  think  very  highly  of  you,  my  child,  but  I  do  desire  that 


380  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

you  should  cultivate  your  reason,  and  read  books  that  de- 
mand and  strengthen  thought.  However  sweet  and  dear 
our  friends  may  be,  we  seldom  encounter  those  who  raise 
us  —  open  out  new  vistas  —  help  us  to  discriminate.  I 
could  wish  for  you  the  companionship  of  an  intellectual 
man,  not  a  lover.  .  .  .  And  while  I  was  running  on  at 
full  tilt  and  becoming  tedious,  in  came  the  post  —  such  a 
good  one  —  and  having  glanced  at  the  four  letters,  I  left 
them  and  we  two  set  out  for  such  a  delightful  ramble 
along  the  cliffs.  What  the  beauty  of  the  blue  sea  with 
its  exquisite  surf !  Nothing  equals  a  ground  swell. 
[There  follow  a  score  of  items  from  the  letters  just  re- 
ceived, with  sympathetic  comments.]  .  .  .  Salcombe  must 
be  sweet,  but  there  never  will  be  such  a  sea  as  Bude  can 
show.  If  you  could  hear  the  thunder  of  the  waves !  It  is 
sad  to  know  that  such  glories  are  going  on  in  the  middle 
of  the  night.  We  saw  such  splendors  this  evening  — 
gold  in  the  west,  the  tenderest  pink  suffusing  the  east  and 
the  moon  rising,  and  then  the  sea  —  the  serried  ranks  of 
waves,  incredibly  large.  And  in  their  foam,  and  the 
smooth  reflex  of  the  water,  such  opal,  iridescent,  unuttera- 
ble colors !  We  have  been,  I  may  say,  saturated  with 
beauty.  ...  As  I  confided  to  you  my  aged  perplexities 
about  clothing,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  light  flashed 
in  with  economy.  I  have  a  velvet  Garibaldi,  made  of 
precious  mother's  cloak,  with  a  bow  behind,  and  an  al- 
paca skirt  (black  of  course)  with  three  small  flounces, 
piped  with  velvet.  That  will  do  quite  well,  with  my  black 
and  yellow  —  and  for  evening,  I  hope  something  can  be 
done  with  moire  dyed  black.  My  dear  old  shag  is  al- 
ways respectable.  How  charmingly  warm  a  sealskin 
bonnet  must  be !  Is  it  very  dear  ?  Tell  me  how  it  is 
trimmed.  But,  good  Heaven !  what  matters  it  what  I  put 
on  ?  Only  that  a  decent  bonnet  I  should  like,  for  dear 
Mrs.  Stirling's  drum.  .  .  .  Clara  is  the  gayest  of  the  gay, 
has  guests  always,  I  think,  and  a  great  many  dinner  par- 


BESIDE    THE  SEA.  381 

ties.  She  writes  in  such  joyous  spirits,  —  seems  full  of 
energy,  and  writes  with  such  affection,  as  if  some  supreme 
blessedness  must  make  her  heart  overflow.  How  I  grieve 

over  dear   Mrs.  P 's   sufferings,  and  how  I  admire 

her  courage  and  self-conquest.  I  am  the  poorest  of  crea- 
tures !  Though  I  know  and  say  that  it  is  not  worth  a 
thought,  rheumatism  has  been  making  me  restless  and 
good-for-nothing  these  last  days.  Better,  I  think,  this  even- 
ing —  I  dare  say  dear  Mrs.  P- would  never  have 

named  or  noticed  so  slight  a  pain.  Give  her  my  kind 
love,  and  say  how  I  admire  her.  Not  many  days  are  let- 
terless. Oh,  how  fast  they  pass,  these  days  of  unbroken 
peace  arid  love  !  What  it  is  to  live  with  one  who  is  always 
sustaining  your  faculties  and  your  spirits  by  his  ever  ten- 
der over-appreciation  —  that  courtesy  which  always  notices 
your  merest  trivialities  respectfully !  We  are  what  oth- 
ers think  us,  in  such  great  measure.  Good-night,  chick 
of  my  heart.  The  dear  Moly  sends  love  to  you. 


BUDE,  Dec.  4, 

.  .  .  What  a  pleasant  letter  you  wrote  me,  my  darling ; 
how  I  enter  into  what  you  say  about  the  distastef ulness  of 
gossip.  Here  is  a  delightful  passage  from  Carlyle,  apro- 
pos thereof. 

Nay,  what  is  that  wonderful  spirit  of  Interference,  were  it 
but  manifested  as  the  paltriest  scandal  and  tea-table  backbitings, 
other  than  inversely  a  heartfelt,  indestructible  sympathy  of  man 
with  man  ?  .  .  .  The  philosopher's  wife  complained  to  him  that 
certain  two-legged  animals  without  feathers  spoke  evil  of  him, 
spitefully  criticised  his  goings  out  and  comings  in ;  wherein  she 
too  failed  not  of  her  share.  "  Light  of  my  life,"  answered  the 
philosopher,  "  it  is  their  love  of  us,  unknown  to  themselves,  and 
taking  a  foolish  shape ;  thank  them  for  it,  and  do  thou  love 
them  more  wisely.  Were  we  mere  steam-engines,  working  here 
under  this  roof-tree,  they  would  scorn  to  speak  of  us  once  in  a 
twelvemonth." 


382  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

But  so  long  as  women  are  uneducated  (which  may  co- 
exist with  accomplishments  and  modern  languages),  so 
long  as  they  have  never  generalized  at  all,  or  looked  be- 
yond what  is  merely  personal,  so  long  will  they  gossip. 
Generally  speaking,  men,  even  average  professional  men, 
don't  gossip,  because  they  have  an  apprehension  of  public 
interests.  When  a  man  gossips,  all  admit  he  is  degraded. 
With  women  as  yet  it  is  too  much  the  rule,  because  they 
have  so  little  else  to  talk  about,  thinking  of  little  else. 
But  the  change  now  going  on  will  be  a  rapid  one.  Mean- 
time, let  all  who  feel  the  pitiableness  of  living  thus  upon 
others  cultivate  their  minds,  were  it  only  by  reading 
books  that  momentarily  lift  them  out  of  the  concrete  into 
the  abstract  —  a  book  of  science,  even  if  they  retain  but 
the  smallest  gleaning.  I  feel  a  different  being  —  say  that 
some  trivial  thing  has  vexed  me  —  after  reading  (just 
now)  LyelTs  Geology  —  or  whatever  else.  You,  with  your 
stronger  memory  and  clearer  head  for  positive  science 
may  do  much  for  yourself  ;  and  if  you  say  "  Why  should 
I  ?  "  I  would  answer,  that  you  may  be  cheerf uller  and 
therefore  make  others  happier.  There  is  an  infinite  sad- 
ness in  a  mind  left  fallow.  Will  you  not,  to  please  me, 
never  speak  against  the  blessed  movement  for  the  higher 
education  of  women  ?  It  is  easy  to  laugh  at  "  strong- 
minded  women,"  but  oh,  what  an  ignorant  laugh  it  is  !  I 
have  been  guilty  of  it,  and  read  Mill's  admirable  book  on 
that  subject  with  a  sense  of  humiliation  which  I  think  was 
wholesome.  .  .  .  Mind  you  tell  me  all  that  interests  you. 
I  enjoy  all  your  pleasures  —  do  you  not  know  I  do  ?  If 
you  see  "  Good  Words "  for  this  month,  peep  at  some 
lines  by  your  Zia. 

A  GIRL'S  FAITH. 

No  two  leaves  above  us  waving 

Are  quite  like  in  form  and  hue, 
No  two  flowers  in  equal  measure 

Hold  the  blessing  of  the  dew,  — 


BESIDE    THE   SEA.  383 

Nothing  is  on  earth  repeated, 
All  is  special,  all  is  new. 

So  of  all  the  hosts  of  lovers, 

Now  and  in  the  days  of  yore, 
Loving  deeply,  loving  lightly, 

Loving  less,  or  loving  more, 
None  have  loved  —  I  hold  it  certain  — 

Quite  as  you  and  I  before  !       m 

Hearts  have  beat,  but  not  as  ours  did 

When  this  hope  upon  us  broke  ; 
All  our  former  life  mere  dreaming, 

Till  to  consciousness  we  woke 
In  a  world  anew  created, 

By  a  little  word  each  spoke. 

Not  as  ours  I  for  that  was  needed, 

What  belongs  to  us  alone  ; 
Just  the  years  we  two  have  counted, 

Just  the  sorrows  we  have  known, 
Just  your  strength,  and  just  my  weakness  — 

Love  !  our  love  is  all  our  own  ! 

Written  for  C ,  June,  1869. 

From  "  Good  Words,"  December,  1869. 


A  WIFE'S  WONDER. 

If  I  had  never  met  thee,  my  beloved, 

As  in  this  world,  where  so  much  waste  is  seen, 
OP  seeming  waste,  might  easily  have  been, 

I  wonder  what  my  nature  would  have  proved  ! 

I  am  so  much  thy  work  ;  thy  thoughts  rule  mine, 
Give  them  direction,  lift  from  what  is  low  ; 
What  grasp  or  play  of  mind  I  have,  I  owe 

To  the  strong  happiness  of  being  thine. 

I  catch  thy  tastes,  enjoy  what  pleases  thee, 
Learn  what  is  beautiful  from  thy  delight, 
Wait  on  thy  choosing  to  decide  aright ; 

'T  is  but  thy  shadow,  any  praise  in  me. 


384  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

To  love,  to  pity,  to  forgive  with  ease, 

In  others'  hopes  and  fears  to  claim  a  part  — 
Are  but  the  o'erflow  of  a  blissful  heart, 

And  having  thee,  how  should  I  fail  in  these  ? 

If  thou  shouldst  leave  me  !  —  in  that  utter  woe 
I  wonder  what  of  life  could  still  be  mine  ! 
Would  mind  be  quench'd,  and  heart  grow  cold  with  thine? 
O  God  !  forbid  that  ever  I  should  know  ! 
BODE. 

From  "  Good  Words,"  December,  1869. 

To  Mr.  Thomas  Constable. 

BUDE  [1869]. 

.  .  .  What  a  mystery  is  the  intense  enjoyment  of  differ- 
ent phases  of  nature  to  different  minds.  A  golden  birch- 
tree  bending  against  a  blue  sky  will  transport  William. 
/  like,  as  uncultivated  natures  always  do,  the  portentous 
—  the  storm,  the  flood,  the  ground-swell  above  all !  ... 
All  the  Scotch  firs  at  the  head  of  Derwentwater  gone ! 
As  the  old  negress  truly  observed,  "  The  Lord  lets  dreffle 
things  happen  !  "  You  can  imagine  how  my  heart  glows 
at  the  thought  of  Edinburgh.  Much  solitude  with  the 
Einziger  —  intervals  of  sociality  with  dearly  loved 
friends  —  some  homely  intercourse  with  the  few  that  one 
can  help  —  that  would  always  be  my  life's  ideal.  How  I 
shall  miss  Sally  when  we  return  to  Newton  Place  !  But 
do  you  know,  I  suspect  there  is  a  wrong  side  to  all  this, 
and  that  I  shrink  from  general  society  and  acquaintance 
because  a  woman  of  my  age  is  so  utterly  unattractive 
there,  entirely  a  nonenity  if  not  a  bore ! 

To  Miss  Edith  Wrench,  —  chiefly  from  Bude,  in  1869. 

And  oh,  my  Edith,  be  thankful  for  what  God  has  given 
you,  and  never  mind  books.  They  are  but  written 
thoughts  of  living  men  ;  you  '11  learn  from  the  men  and 
women  themselves.  The  love  of  reading  is  a  great  re- 
source, but  not  the  very  avenue  of  wisdom.  Live  your 


BESIDE   THE  SEA.  385 

best ;  try  to  shun  all  extravagance,  extravagant  wishes  as 
well  as  expenditure.  Try  to  believe  that  place  does  not 
make  so  much  difference  as  whether  we  are  busy  in  the 
place.  I  always  find  you  a  dear  and  congenial  companion. 

Economy  must  be  attended  to.  That 's  a  fundamental, 
simple  honesty  ;  scarce  a  virtue,  but  soil  for  virtues  to 
grow  in,  soil  without  which  none  can  grow. 

I  prefer  the  unprosperous.  Perhaps  this  savours  of  self- 
ishness, for  one  can  do  nothing  for  those  who  have  all  and 
abound.  I  am  wrong  —  we  can  rejoice  with  them. 

Oh,  that  I  could  impart  to  you  my  horror  and  dread  of 
debts  of  any  and  every  kind !  No  one  can  have  every- 
thing they  might  fancy  ;  there  must  always  be  an  effort  to 
live  within  one's  means  or  they  will  be  exceeded ;  and 
once  exceeded,  good-by  all  comfort,  all  honour,  all  affec- 
tion. Believe  me,  once  in  debt  and  a  person  would  be 
glad  of  any  one's  death,  so  it  might  bring  a  windfall ! 

Let  me  tell  you  what  I  am  looking  out  upon.  A  white 
world  (we  had  a  quite  deep  snow  on  Saturday  night)  spark- 
ling in  brilliant  sunshine,  the  sands  purely  white  up  to  the 
water's  edge,  the  little  river  winding  along,  partially 
frozen,  the  vessels  slowly  stealing  out  of  the  harbour,  with 
Christmas  nosegays  at  the  masthead,  and  every  sail  set  — 
they  look  so  dark  contrasted  with  the  snow.  All  about  in 
the  little  garden  charming  little  birds  (we  've  been  feed- 
ing them  with  crumbs,  and  I've  just  sent  for  canary 
seed),  robins  with  bright  waistcoats  and  fluffy,  portly  fig- 
ures, and  the  most  audacious  pair  of  wagtails  —  they  were 
both  in  the  little  room  yesterday,  and  I  caught  one  quite 
easily  and  kissed  it.  What  a  strange  love  one  feels  for 
"  a  bird  in  the  hand,"  warm,  fluttering,  pulsing.  One  of 
these  wagtails  eats  up  the  crumbs  at  a  most  astonishing 


386  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

rate,  and  when  he  can  no  more  walks  up  and  down  the 
little  path  to  the  gate,  keeping  off  the  Bobuses ! 

There  is  no  gift  so  precious  as  a  cheerful  temper,  and  I 
do  believe  no  one  thing  that  wins  so  much  love.  ...  It 
may  indeed  be  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive,  but 
when  the  former  luxury  is  not  within  one's  honest  reach, 
it  is  blessed  too  to  receive,  from  those  one  thoroughly 
loves,  as  I  do  H . 

If  I  had  life  to  begin  over  again,  I  would  learn  a  little 
simple  surgery.  I  think  everybody  should  know  how  to 
bandage  properly. 

Yesterday  there  was  no  stirring.  Never  was  there  such 
wind  and  such  sublime  rain,  sheets  of  it,  quite  exciting 
to  watch,  the  ground  before  us  covered  with  water  as  in  a 
high  tide.  The  day  before  we  had  had  such  a  fine  wild 
blow  along  the  cliffs,  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  stormy 
grandeur  of  the  scene.  The  sea  in  awful  shadow,  the 
black  sky  rent  toward  the  north,  and  a  broad  space  of 
green  blue,  wondrously  pure  and  ethereal.  Near  the 
horizon  a  range  of  cloud  peaks  catching  the  sunlight  that 
we  could  not  see,  and  across  this  space  of  light  and  colour 
such  columns  of  dark  rain  driving  along.  Words  are  poor 
things  —  but  it  was  very  glorious.  The  rain  caught  us, 
and  there  we  sheltered,  so  cheery  and  glowing,  under  a 
wall  with  ragged  gorse  top,  and  how  the  wind  shook  our 
gorse  tent !  And  even  there,  on  the  Widemouth  road, 
great  foam  flakes  whirled  along  with  the  wild  rain.  In 
the  afternoon  I  went  to  the  breakwater,  and  was  there 
long,  not  crossing,  the  foam  and  wind  daunting  me,  but 
watching  the  great  rollers. 


BESIDE   THE  SEA.  387 

To  Mrs.  Cotton. 


BUDE,  Nov.  29, 

This  is  the  dullest  of  wet  mornings,  and  it  occurs  to  me 
that  there  is  no  better  way  of  brightening  it  up  than 
writing  to  you.  So  I  put  by  my  darning,  and  place  your 
photograph  so  that  you  look  at  me  calmly  with  hand  sus- 
pended as  if  in  excellent  listening  mood.  Can  I  bring 
you  back  in  thought  to  Bude  to-day  —  will  you  come 
though  it  is  at  its  worst  ?  Saturday  was  furious,  rain  dash- 
ing at  the  panes,  blurring  them  so  that  one  could  scarce 
see  the  red  river  of  mud  that  swelled  up  to  its  banks, 
spreading  over  much  of  the  sand  and  staining  the  whole 
of  the  bay.  Really  Saturday  was  almost  sublimely  wild. 
This  morning  it  is  only  dull  persistent  rain.  Sitting  at 
the  window  I  watch  the  carts  crawl  along  the  sand,  the  pa- 
tient horses  having  hard  work  with  their  heavy  loads; 
near  at  hand  the  building  of  new  houses,  the  going  up  and 
down  the  ladders  of  active,  intelligent-looking  workmen, 
with  straight  profiles  and  tufty  heads,  who  get  on  rapidly 
let  the  weather  be  what  it  may.  And  rapidly  coming  in, 
tossing  about  the  bleak  rocks,  are  rows  of  white  waves, 
asking  only  a  ray  of  light  to  be  beautiful.  To  think 
that  it  is  rather  more  than  a  month  since  I  heard  from  you, 
more  since  I  wrote  to  you  !  You  have  been  moving  about 
so  much  (of  course  this  is  only  the  vainest  excuse,  but 
anything  will  do  in  the  matter  of  letter-writing)  and  do 

you  know,  taking  it  for  granted  that  you  are  now  at , 

I  feel  rather  shy  of  you  there,  in  an  atmosphere  so  essen- 
tially unlike  that  in  which  I  have  my  being,  and  with  a 
friend  excellent  and  admirable  I  well  believe  in  many 
and  many  a  point  where  I  should  prove  mere  failure,  but 
so  different  a  type  that  from  her  point  of  view  I  must  be 
reprehensible  in  most  things  and  unintelligible  in  the  rest. 
Ah,  my  dear  one,  do  not  even  open  this  letter  down-stairs  ! 
Wait  till  bedtime,  and  let  me  feel  I  am  having  a  chat 


388  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

with  you  and  the  beloved  General,  and  then  I  can  breathe. 
The  very  retrospect  of  the  powdered  footmen  and  the  ri- 
gidity of  Miss 's  moral  sense  was  beginning  to  make 

me  feel  quite  formal.  Those  words,  "  rigidity,"  etc.,  be- 
tray me  into  a  bit  of  lowest  gossip.  Well !  There  was  a 
certain  stone-breaker  I  had  encountered  in  my  solitary 
springtime  walks,  and  taken  a  fancy  to,  —  he  was  so 
cheerful  in  spite  of  rheumatism,  and  so  quaint  in  his  way 
of  expressing  himself.  And  he  appreciated  a  little  to- 
bacco. However,  I  had  not  come  across  him  for  some  time 
when  one  early  day  in  November  it  occurred  to  me  that  I 
would  go  to  his  cottage  with  my  humble  offering.  The 
door  was  opened  by  a  respectable  woman  with  handker- 
chief up  to  her  face.  I  thought  my  friend  was  dead.  No, 
he  had  been  ill  and  was  well  again,  but  she,  the  wife,  was 
suffering  sadly,  and  there  to  be  sure  was  a  fearful  boil  on 
the  upper  lip;  the  inflamed,  tightly  stretched  skin  ex- 
posed to  the  air,  and  nothing  to  mitigate  the  pain.  You 
see  at  once  what  an  opening  for  my  medical  skill,  and 
like  all  quacks  I  pique  myself  a  good  deal.  Never  was  a 
patient  that  responded  more  kindly  to  wet  lint  and  oil 
silk,  and  she  was  such  a  pleasant,  countrified,  Welsh  kind 
of  woman,  and  gave  me  such  a  fee  of  apples  (I  had  to 
take  it  too),  and  did  not  turn  up  her  nose  at  Liebig,  and 
in  short  our  relations  were  most  satisfactory  —  when  an 
unwelcome  ray  of  light  is  thrown  upon  the  case.  She  is 

the  mother  of  Mrs. 's  husband,   the  mother  too  of 

five  other  sons,  all  entitled  simply  to  the  mother's  name, 
and  brothers  only  on  the  mother's  side.  I  positively  stag- 
gered. One  must  draw  a  line,  and  become  rigid  some- 
where. Ah  no  —  rigid  nowhere  —  but  you  can  under- 
stand that  my  pleasure  is  spoiled.  The  worst  of  these 
departures  from  the  right  is  that  they  entail  subterfuge 

and  deceit.     Mrs. ,  with  her  first  baby,  has  just  gone 

to  her  husband's  house.  Poor  young  man  !  Naturally  too 
the  young  wife  may  not  like  to  keep  up  more  than  can  be 


BESIDE   THE  SEA.  389 

helped  of  that  relationship.  I  must  end  my  gossip  by  say- 
ing that  the  stone-breaker  is  really  the  husband,  and 
speaks  with  a  touching  tenderness  of  his  "  old  woman." 
I  fear  she  is  getting  into  thoroughly  bad  health,  but  here 
where  doctors  are  sober  I  dare  not  practise  extensively. 
And  the  dampness  of  the  cottage  by  the  canal  would  nul- 
lify quinine,  I  fear.  And  so  it  ends  like  most  cases  with  a 
mere  sigh,  "  The  pity  of  it,  the  pity  of  it !  " 

.  .  .  Mr. gives  a  frightful  picture  of  the  open  re- 
bellion of  feeling  and  language  at  Cork.  Indeed,  the 
state  of  Ireland  is  enough  to  make  anyone  grave,  and 
those  who  viewed  in  a  disestablished  Church  and  a  prom- 
ised Land  Bill  merely  sops  to  Cerberus  will  no  doubt  loudly 
proclaim  that  they  have  failed  to  conciliate  him.  Never- 
theless, "  Fais  ce  que  dois,  advienne  que  pourra ! "  Things 
that  have  gone  wrong  so  long  won't  come  right  at  once. 
Our  "  Times  "  brings  us  in  plenty  of  excitement.  Is  not 
dear  General  Cotton  glad  about  Dr.  Livingstone,  and  in- 
terested about  these  strange  underground  people,  the  Rua  ? 
And  the  unexpected  result  of  these  late  Deep  Sea  dredg- 
ings,  too  !  How  can  any  one  ever  be  dull  in  such  a  won- 
drous world  —  any  one,  that  is,  who  is  heart-happy  and  in 
health !  We  have  had  a  new  book  parcel,  with  charming 
numbers  of  the  "  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes."  I  should 
like  you  to  read  Mr.  M.  Arnold's  two  papers  in  the 
"  Cornhill "  on  St.  Paul.  We  've  got  Browning's  "  Ring 
and  Book"  too,  —  hard  reading  rather,  crabbed,  con- 
torted ;  full  of  rough  power  and  beauty,  no  doubt,  further 
on.  I  Ve  read  your  beautiful  Spectrum  book  with  atten- 
tion and  delight,  and  shall  read  it  again.  I  have  come  to 
believing  that  all  books  of  that  nature  should  be  read 
twice.  The  days  are  very  short,  though.  A  little  reading 
after  breakfast  of  some  improving  book ;  then  comes  the 
post,  and  the  abstract  gives  way  to  the  personal ;  then, 
when  it  is  fine,  we  get  a  good  walk  —  to  Widemouth  not 
unfrequently,  and  passing  the  cottage  I  remember  how 


390  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

pleasant  it  was  to  rest  there  on  the  way  to  Nuthook ;  and 
often,  dear  one,  I  improve  localities  by  associating  them 
with  you.  William  and  I  live  now  all  day  long  together, 
and  almost  always  walk  together  ;  and  though  variety  is  es- 
sential for  us  all,  and  this  is  too  spoiling,  too  petting,  too 
flattering  a  life,  and  it  will  do  me  good  no  doubt  to  have 
a  little  friction  and  a  little  sense  of  being  seen  through  in- 
different eyes  —  yet  I  do  emphatically  record  it  best  and 
sweetest  of  all  lives,  and  wish  for  all  who  are  one  that 
they  could  be  cast  on  a  desert  island,  say  for  seven  months 
out  of  the  twelve !  By  the  way,  my  little  lines  which  I 
repeated  to  you  are  in  the  new  "  Good  Words."  So 
slight,  it  must  be  out  of  good  nature  Mr.  Strahan  put 
them  in  ;  but  still,  being  from  the  heart,  some  heart  may 
echo  them. 

These  are  the  "  little  lines." 

MOODS. 

Lord,  in  Thy  sky  of  blue, 

No  stain  of  cloud  appears  ; 

Gone  all  my  faithless  fears, 
Only  Thy  Love  seems  true. 
Help  me  to  thank  Thee,  then,  I  pray, 
Walk  in  the. light  and  cheerfully  obey  ! 

Lord,  when  I  look  on  high, 

Clouds  only  meet  my  sight  ; 

Fears  deepen  with  the  night  ; 
But  yet  it  is  Thy  sky. 
Help  me  to  trust  Thee,  then,  I  pray, 
Wait  in  the  dark  and  tearfully  obey. 


CHAPTEK  XXVI. 

RIPENING  YEARS. 

i 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

WE  left  Bude,  as  I  have  said,  early  in  January,  left  it 
for  Bath,  and  there  spent  three  weeks  under  the  roof  of 
my  husband's  old  and  true  friend,  Mrs.  Haughton.  In 
my  pocket-book  for  this  year  he  wrote,  "  A  new  decade  ; 
the  old  wish :  May  it  be  a  repetition  of  the  last !  "  There 
had  been  several  entries  of  the  kind :  "  May  we  have 
no  new  years,  only  the  old  ones  back  again  ; "  "  May  the 
new  year  be  happy  as  the  old,"  etc.  As  we  purposed 
spending  the  following  spring  and  summer  in  the  north, 
at  our  dear  Newton  Place,  we  fixed  upon  Edinburgh  for 
the  few  intervening  winter  weeks.  I  was  greatly  occu- 
pied with  a  dearly-loved  invalid  friend,  and  spent  all  my 
evenings  with  her. 

March  found  us  once  more  at  Newton  Place,  where  we 
were  welcomed  and  ministered  to  with  an  affection  that  we 
returned.  .  .  .  This  year  my  husband  published  in  the 
"  Contemporary  "  two  articles  on  "  Knowing  and  Feel- 
ing," and  wrote  two  papers  for  "  Blackwood's  Magazine." 
One  of  these  was  upon  Dr.  Noah  Porter's  work  on  the 
"Human  Intellect,"  for  which  he  had,  and  expressed, 
high  appreciation,  and  which  generally  lay  upon  his  writ- 
ing-table.  I  need  hardly  say  that  he  also  read  much. 
What  and  how  he  read  shall  be  described  in  words  of  his 
own,  written  long  years  before,  and  true  to  the  end  :  — 

"  The  books  of  a  speculative  man  lie  open  quite  tran- 
quilly before  him,  the  page  turns  slowly  —  they  are  the 


392  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

things  that  set  his  own  thoughts  in  motion,  and  with  those 
thoughts,  whether  the  books  lie  there  or  not,  he  is  chiefly 
engaged.  What  he  reads  is  all  along  so  mingled  with  and 
modified  by  his  own  reflections,  that  at  the  end  of  his  la- 
bours he  can  scarcely  tell  what  was  his  own  and  what  the 
author's.  The  written  words  on  the  page  have  been  like 
music  to  a  thoughtful  man,  which  prompts  and  accom- 
panies his  long  reverie,  but  itself  is  little  heeded.  Even 
when  heeded  most,  and  carefully  weighed  and  scrutinized, 
the  words  he  reads  are  still  the  mere  utterance  of  a 
thought  that  has  thus  been  carried  to  him ;  they  are  not 
the  utterance  of  this  or  that  man,  and  bear  on  them  noth- 
ing of  motive  or  character.  Whilst  the  historian,  in  pro- 
portion as  he  prosecutes  his  labours,  recalls  and  reani- 
mates some  scene  of  past  experience,  and  adds  detail  to 
detail  till  it  almost  appears  to  be  again  a  portion  of  the 
living  world,  the  philosophic  or  metaphysic  labourer,  who 
is  in  search  of  first  principles,  and  is  exploring  with  this 
purpose  the  furthest  recesses  of  the  human  mind,  departs 
at  every  step  more  completely  from  all  detail  and  every 
familiar  object,  and  gains  as  the  result  of  his  toil  some  ab- 
stract truth,  if  truth  it  be,  which  after  all  no  man  seems  to 
care  for  but  himself.  Like  the  celebrated  traveller  whose 
ambition  it  was  to  detect  the  source  of  the  Nile,  he  leaves 
behind  him  the  broad  stream  with  its  fertile  and  populous 
banks,  whereon  city  and  temple  have  been  built  —  he 
bends  his  devoted  course  to  where  the  river  of  life  grows 
more  and  more  narrow,  more  and  more  silent  as  he  pro- 
ceeds —  and  at  length  stands  alone,  in  brief  and  troubled 
rapture  over  a  discovery  which  may  still  be  dubious,  and 
in  which  no  one  participates." 

I  think  I  may  as  well  sum  up  our  summer  in  an  ex- 
tract from  an  irregularly-kept  diary  of  mine  :  "  July  the 
28th,  1870.  .  .  .  Here  we  have  been  for  more  than  four 
months,  for  half  our  appointed  time.  And  hitherto  it  is 
passing  sweetly,  as  former  summers  have  passed  in  this 


RIPENING    YEARS.  393 

almost  home.  Visits  from  different  friends  have  been 
much  enjoyed  by  me,  because  I  have  had  my  conditions 
of  enjoyment:  William  has  been  well,  and  occupied  thor- 
oughly and  energetically.  .  .  .  The  days  are  all  too  short. 
And  as  they  fly  by,  they  bring  an  ever-deepening  con- 
sciousness of  the  peerless  treasure  of  living  with  one  so 
entirely  beloved  and  lovable,  —  with  so  large  an  intellect, 
so  gracious  a  nature  ! 1  Never  does  word  of  detraction  or 
spite  cross  his  dear  lips ;  never  is  he  hasty,  unjust,  uncan- 
did,  unwise  in  thought  or  word.  He  ought  to  be  an  elevat- 
ing influence.  I  ought  to  be  better.  We  have  been  all 
surrounded  by  hay  —  the  last  fragrant  cartful  from  the 
meadows  will  now  be  soon  carried  off,  and  of  late  we  have 
had  exquisite  summer.  The  one  apparent  cloud  over  our 
little  lives  is  that  which  darkens  millions  —  this  horrible, 
appalling  war.  Sometimes  one  feels  it  almost  wrong  to 
be  so  happy.'* 

W.  S.  to  Mr.  Loomis. 

NEWTON  PLACE,  March  29,  1870. 

I  must  thank  you  myself  —  although  my  wife  will  do  it 
in  the  letter  she  is  going  to  write  —  for  sending  us  those 
two  lectures  on  Comtism.  My  first  impression  was  that  you 
were  the  author  as  well  as  the  sender  of  them,  but  I  came 
upon  passages  which  I  do  not  think  your  religious  convic- 
tions would  have  allowed  you  to  write,  and  I  afterward 
observed  the  name  of  Fiske,  put  among  the  contents  of 
the  lectures,  but  in  such  a  way  as  to  indicate,  I  suppose, 
that  these  were  a  series  of  two  of  Mr.  Fiske's  lectures.  I 
read  them  with  great  interest.  The  author  has  studied 
Herbert  Spencer  and  appears  in  the  main  to  agree  with 
him.  He  is  evidently  marching  in  the  foremost  rank  of 
the  thinkers  of  our  day,  perhaps  a  step  or  two  in  advance 
of  either  you  or  me.  At  least,  I  suspect  we  should  both 
pause  before  we  admitted  the  Spencerian  idea  of  the  ob- 

1  It  may  be  asked,  "What  were  the  faults,  the  drawbacks?  "  I 
answer  now,  as  I  should  have  done  then,  "  /  do  not  know  them." 


394  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

jeet  of  religious  worship  (which  I  cannot  distinguish  from 
Spinoza's).  However  difficult  it  may  be  to  form  an  idea 
of  the  personality  of  God,  it  seems  to  me  that  if  we  erase 
this  conception  entirely  and  pronounce  against  personal- 
ity, we  may  as  well  erase  this  sacred  name  at  once  from 
our  vocabulary.  Pantheism  gives  us  only  wonder,  and 
the  conception  of  the  whole  as  in  some  way  emanating 
from  one  source.  We  may  come  to  this,  but  if  we  do  the 
old  names  of  God  and  religion  will  be  little  more  than 
signs  of  certain  past  ways  of  thinking  and  feeling. 

It  seemed  to  me  very  creditable  to  your  newspaper 
press  that  so  cheap  a  paper  as  this  [the  New  York 
"  World  "]  can  give  so  much  space  to  lectures  of  this  pro- 
found character  —  or  rather,  it  is  creditable  to  the  read- 
ers of  such  papers.  I  doubt  if  any  London  journal  would 
do  the  like.  .  .  .  We  lead  a  contented,  but  I  am  ashamed 
to  say  (for  my  own  part)  a  very  idle  life. 

"  Good  Words  "  for  September,  1870,  contained  these 
lines  by  L.  C.  S. :  — 

NOT  ALONE. 

Companions  fair  had  I  while,  as  a  child, 

I  danced  along  the  smooth  ascent  to  youth,  — 

Light-footed  Joy,  brave  Hope,  and  Fancy  wild, 
With  wondrous  fairy  tales,  all  told  for  truth. 

Love,  too,  was  near,  and  came  at  every  call, 

Flung  kisses  and  fond  words  to  great  and  small ; 

But  of  Love's  nature  than  I  scarce  took  note  at  all. 

Companions  these,  along  youth's  level  way, 
Hope,  now  the  dearest,  never  left  my  side  — 

But  Joy  and  Fancy  would  not  always  stay. 

And  Love,  drawn  closer,  proved  with  pain  allied  : 

No  longer  gave  she  freely  as  of  yore, 

But  set  a  price  upon  her  priceless  store, 

And,  e'en  when  best  repaid,  in  secret  pined  for  more- 


RIPENING    YEAiiS.  395 

Companions  still  are  these,  although  I  .find 
The  path  grow  narrow  as  my  steps  descend  ; 

Joy,  Hope,  and  Fancy  sometimes  lag  behind  ; 
Let  them  !  so  Love  keep  by  me  to  the  end  ! 

Love  changed  and  chasten'd  —  careless  grown  of  sway, 

Careless  how  any  prize  her  or  repay  ; 

Caring  for  this  alone  —  to  give  herself  away  ! 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

NEWTON  PLACE,  Oct.  17,  1870. 

You  know  that  my  heart,  always  full  of  love  and  hope 
for  you,  must  especially  overflow  on  the  eve  of  a  birthday. 
But  it  shall  overflow  speechlessly.  How  do  I  know  what 
is  best  and  happiest  for  you  ?  All  this  present  distress 
and  perplexity  may  be  preparing  some  brightness,  some 
peace,  some  fulness,  that  I  can't  guess  at.  To  me  to  be 
twenty,  even  with  a  few  added  years,  seems  of  course  to 
be  very  young  indeed  !  But  I  vividly  recollect  the  time 
when  it  did  not  seem  so  —  and  when,  having  as  you  know 
lived  through  much  of  keen  joy  and  bitter  disappointment, 
I  did  most  truly  believe  life  in  the  only  sense  of  the  term 
I  much  cared  for  was  entirely  over;  and  the  matronly 
airs  and  premature  abnegations  I  displayed,  if  ridiculous, 
were  at  least  sincere.  Therefore  I  can  imagine  that  my 
dear  child  will  feel  a  twinge  of  sadness,  but  I  want  her  to 
view  her  age  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  community  at 
large.  It  is  only  girls  of  seventeen  who  think  an  added 
decade  so  momentous  —  it  is  not  even  youth,  to  whom  the 
woman  is  generally  more  attractive  than  the  girl.  In  the 
power  of  pleasing  in  society,  power  of  helping  by  sympa- 
thy and  intelligence,  power  of  winning  and  returning  love, 
power  of  thinking,  power  of  doing  —  seven  and  twenty  is 
far  beyond  seventeen.  Oh,  do  not  darken  your  perfect 
youth  by  bewailing  wilfully  your  immature  youth  !  Do 
not  let  the  rose  that  has  opened  out  to  its  "  dainty  core  " 
hang  its  head  because  it  cannot  "  close  and  be  a  bud 
again  !  "  So  we  may  go  through  life,  helpless,  hopeless 


396  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

mourners  for  the  past  —  with  heads  reverted  and  eyes 
blind  to  all  glory  in  the  future.  But  there  is  no  folly 
like  anticipated  wisdom.  There  is  deep  sadness  for  us 
all  in  this  remorseless  course  of  the  years  —  first  because 
they  carry  us  away  from  our  prime,  or  that  we  fancied  so ; 
next  because  they  carry  us  on  to  decay,  loss,  or  death. 
Deep  sadness  —  a  deep  all  of  waves  and  storms,  so  long  as 
we  passively  yield  to  it.  But  the  moment  we  put  our 
hand  to  any  work,  the  "  going  forward,"  which  is  the  law 
of  our  existence,  is  a  cheerful  march  too.  And  that  is 
why  I  have  been  so  anxious,  oh,  my  darling,  that  your  ex- 
cellent faculties  should  be  called  out  by  strenuous  study. 
You  will  always  be  loved,  will  always  have  much  —  friends 
and  social  interests  and  much  besides ;  but  what  we  are 
is  more  than  any  having,  and  there  does  come  a  greater 
amount  of  energy  and  satisfaction  from  mental  work  than 
any  variety  of  pleasure.  And  so  it  was  I  desired  very 
ardently  for  you  an  Edinburgh  winter  and  a  leading  pur- 
suit. ...  I  sit  here  and  ask  myself  whether  I  am  "  inter- 
fering "  as  says.  I  dare  say  my  character  has  that 

tendency,  but  I  don't  think  I  take  the  initiative.  When 
any  one  confides  in  me,  and  I  seem  to  see  the  remedy  for 
the  sorrow  confided,  the  clue  to  the  way  out  into  the  open, 
so  plainly  —  I  can't  help  pointing  it  out,  pressing  its 
adoption.  I  am  very  glad  your  birthday  finds  you  at  Bur- 
ton Agnes,  with  such  dear  loving  friends.  I  'm  uneasy 
about  your  cold,  though,  and  terribly  afraid  you  '11  bring 
it  all  back  by  attending  that  tiresome  exhuming.  I  pic- 
ture to  myself  your  standing  long  on  damp  ground,  seeing 
a  few  broken  bits  of  pottery  turned  out,  and  at  last  a 
doubled-up  skeleton  !  I  know  damp,  icy  feet  and  then  a 
lay-up  must  come  of  it,  and  I  wish  Canon  Greenwell  and 
his  barrow  were  miles  away!  .  .  .  We  are  having  the 
wildest  weather  —  water,  water  everywhere.  Yesterday  I 
caught  Lodore  finer  than  I  had  ever  seen  it,  and  scram- 
bled about  alone  like  an  ancient  £jat !  I  was  out  a  long 


RIPENING    YEARS.  397 

time,  and  saw  such  beautiful  things  —  sun-gleams  and 
rain-columns.  Oh,  for  peace  !  Oh,  to  be  and  do  right ! 
That  after  all  is  Heaven.  William  is  such  an  angel  to 
me.  I  am  glad  you  all  approved  his  letter.  He  is  very 
fond  of  my  chick.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you  may  yet  manage 
Edinburgh.  Anyhow,  the  winter  may  have  more  pleas- 
ures. My  sweet  child,  your  aunt  Lucy  has  many  things 
in  her  heart.  And  I  have  a  great  power  of  "  living  in 
your  experience,"  and  understand  by  my  own  feelings  how 
precious  Granny  craved  to  see  me  happy.  May  all  true 
blessedness  be  yours !  May  you  and  Edith  be  ever  more 
and  more  one  in  your  tender  affection  to  your  mother,  and 
your  loyalty  to  each  other.  I  believe  Edith  would  put  her 
hand  into  the  fire  to  save  you  pain. 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Loomis. 

NEWTON  PLACE,  Oct.  18, 1870. 

.  .  .  You  send  us  a  delightful  description  of  your  holi- 
day month.  How  the  dear  little  girls  must  have  enjoyed 
it !  The  grandmother's  home  is  the  children's  heaven 
upon  earth,  generally  speaking,  and  when  it  is  near  the 
sea  it  must  be  the  seventh  heaven !  Though  to  be  sure 
time  is  not  standing  still  with  the  sweet  Daisy,  and  her 
delights  on  the  beach  are  no  longer  those  of  a  child. 
What  an  exquisite  summer  home  you  described,  and 
how  charming  yours  at  Poughkeepsie  must  be.  William 
and  I  often  talk  of  crossing  the  Atlantic,  and  our  dream 
always  includes  a  peep  at  you.  But  I  am  too  afraid  of 
the  passage  —  the  illness,  and  the  dread  of  drowning 
which  would  alternate  with  the  physical  suffering.  It  is 
more  probable  that  we  shall  meet  again  in  this  Lake  coun- 
try, for  when  the  girls  are  a  little  older  you  will  wish  to 
show  them  Europe.  One  summer  day  of  more  than  usual 
beauty,  as  Mary  and  I  were  strolling  before  the  house,  we 
noticed  two  strangers,  and  felt  sure  that  they  were  a  very 
superior  pair  and  an  American  pair.  The  gentleman  very 


398  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

tall  and  thin,  with  a  wonderful  hat,  intended  to  protect 
against  a  fiercer  sun  than  ours,  and  with  a  large  white 
umbrella  besides.  The  lady  flung  herself  down  on  the 
grass  of  the  field  in  the  shade  one  of  the  trees  of  our 
garden  cast,  and  gazed  at  the  soft  hills,  misty  and  there- 
fore loftier  than  reality,  in  the  afternoon  sun  that  was  get- 
ting behind  them  ;  the  gentleman  seemed  mainly  inter- 
ested in  the  configuration  of  the  nearer  rocks.  You  can't 
think  how  I  longed  to  speak  to  them  over  the  hedge,  to 
ask  them  to  come  in  and  have  a  cup  of  afternoon  tea !  I 
am  sociable  enough  to  long  to  do  things  of  the  kind  —  not 
to  do  them!  For  that  I  have  not  courage  —  not  that 
blessed  "  certainty  to  please  "  which  beauty,  talents,  and 
even  youth  are  authorized  to  give  —  or  that  still  more 
blessed  spontaneous  geniality  which  acts  without  any  reflex 
action,  any  questioning  about  the  impression  it  produces. 
The  clergyman  to  whom  William  lent  your  kind  gift 
[u  Boston  Lectures  on  Christianity  and  Scepticism  "]  and 
his  wife  have  that  geniality.  They  are  really  a  remarka- 
ble pair,  with  an  unusual  amount  of  the  "  enthusiasm  of 
humanity  "  about  them.  Mr.  Borthwick  looked  in  yester- 
day morning,  and  again  carried  off  the  essays.  He  is  re- 
markably musical,  and  has  given  me  a  beautiful  Hymn 
and  Tune  Book  —  to  me  mere  tantalization,  for  we  no- 
mads have  no  piano,  but  I  should  like  to  send  it  to  you. 
...  A  most  exquisite  season  it  has  been,  and  the  hideous 
war  now  raging  has  seemed  impossible  under  such  a  sky. 
When  last  I  wrote  to  you  how  little  any  one  foresaw  it ! 
A.nd  now  one  cannot  realize  it  —  cannot  realize  the  sud- 
den and  fearful  reverses  France  has  undergone.  I  don't 
know  whether  you  ever  see  the  "  Contemporary  Review." 
William  has  had  two  psychological  papers  in  it,  and  oth- 
ers will  follow.  But  what  made  me  think  of  it  just  then 
was  Mr.  Ludlow's  very  interesting  paper  about  the  war. 
I  so  entirely  feel  with  him  that  although  at  first  one's 
sympathy  was  with  Germany  the  aggressed,  it  turns  away 


RIPENING    YEARS.  399 

from  Germany  the  implacable  annexer  and  humbler  of 
France.  ...  I  know  your  friendly  feelings  will  be  glad 
to  know  that  the  summer. has  passed  very  happily  with  us. 
I  had  my  sweet  niece  Mary,  my  almost  child,  here  for 
more  than  three  months.  One  other  niece,  Clara  (can 
you  recall  a  very  tall  girl  at  Brighton  ?),  now  happily 
married,  came  with  her  first  baby  to  the  hotel  near  us  and 
stayed  there  a  month.  She  has  developed  into  a  delight- 
ful woman.  This  morning  I  have  had  a  loving  letter  from 
her,  with  a  photograph  of  her  little  son,  three  months  old, 
and  a  fine  chubby  fellow,  already  developing  a  most 
marked  individuality,  according  to  the  happy  mother's  be- 
lief! And  so  it  is,  I  dare  say,  for  always  Love  sees 
truest !  Indeed  Love  only  knows.  How  should  Indiffer- 
ence, or  still  less  Dislike,  gauge  character?  I  firmly 
accept  all  that  loving  hearts  tell  ine  about  those  they  love. 
I  may  not  see  the  person  as  they  do  —  but  that 's  because 
my  eyes  lack  the  anointing,  and  they  are  right. 

We  have  had  also  visits  from  other  friends,  one  of  them 
the  sister  of  Arthur  Clough,  who  is,  I  think,  as  well  known 
with  you  as  with  us.  And  now  we  are  alone,  and  that  is 
the  best  of  all  —  though  variety  is  of  course  pleasant,  and 
all  friends  (and  we  see  none  but  friends)  are  dearly  wel- 
come. I  think  the  death  of  Dickens  has  been  my  sharp- 
est sorrow  this  summer,  and  I  do  feel  it  as  a  source  of  per- 
sonal happiness  closed.  We  have  had  Emerson's  last 
book,  full  of  beauty  and  wisdom.  I  have  read  some  of 
the  essays  —  the  fourth  attentively.  On  this  great  sub- 
ject I  cannot  enter  —  it  is  too  great,  and  "  clouds  and 
darkness  "  are  about  it.  Only  one  thing  I  do  feel  sure  of, 
"  Love  is  of  God."  My  dear  one  has  written  a  longer 
note  than  usual.  I  am  thankful  to  believe  that  he  looks 
well  and  is  well  —  his  step  elastic  and  light,  always  going 
up  two  steps  at  a  time,  his  spirits  so  evenly  bright  and 
playful.  .  .  .  Nearly  eight  years  since  we  last  met  —  but 
we  are  not  forgetting  each  other,  nor  do  I  think  we  shall. 


400  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

Much  love  to  you  both,  and  persuade  Daisy  that  she  re- 
members me  !     I  hope  you  got  the  Dramas. 

W.  S.    to  Same. 

.  .  .  Talking  of  books,  my  Lucy  despatched  to  you  by 
post  a  little  volume  of  poems  —  dramas  —  written  as  the 
date  will  show  long,  long  ago.  She  did  it  in  spite  of  my 
protest.  I  know  they  are  dead  —  that  they  never  in  fact 
lived  —  and  I  am  quite  reconciled  to  their  fate.  I  assure 
you  it  is  one  of  the  last  things  I  should  do  —  to  invite  any 
one  to  their  perusal.  I  have  buried  them  long  ago. 

The  terrible  war  and  the  state  of  France  engrosses  us 
here,  and  I  suppose  is  the  great  topic  of  interest  with  you. 
How  to  get  nations  to  behave  with  justice  to  each  other, 
and  then  how  to  get  the  several  classes  of  which  a  nation 
is  composed  to  live  equitably  together  —  these  problems 
were  never  brought  before  me  more  terribly  than  now. 
There  was  no  rational  cause  for  this  most  awful  war  — 
nothing  but  senseless  rivalry  —  who  is  strongest?  And 
France  in  her  agony  is  now  disclosing  —  what  ?  The  hos- 
tility between  class  and  class,  between  rich  and  poor,  capi- 
talist and  workman.  We  have  not  got  farther  than  this 
in  our  progress  of  civilization  !  What  is  reported  of  the 
state  of  Lyons  is  even  more  ominous  than  the  condition  of 
Paris.  We  in  England,  cooped  up  in  our  little  island, 
with  a  great  population  of  the  poor  and  discontented,  have 
causes  for  alarm  that  you  have  not.  So  perhaps  the 
anarchy  which  threatens  France  is  looked  on  by  us  not 
with  sympathy  only  for  France,  but  with  terror  for  our- 
selves. 

Extracts  from  Letters  to  Mr.  Thomas  Constable. 

(Borrowdale,  undated.)  As  for  dear  Sally,  she  was  in 
highest  force  yesterday,  and  her  ruffled  dignity  when  poor 
Dinah  introduced  herself  into  the  party  was  really  amus- 
ing. Ah,  so  touchingly  sweet  to  my  heart!  dear  old 


RIPENING    YEARS.  401 

Robert  has  left  me  a  pretty  stone,  with  a  fossil  of  some 
kind  or  other,  something, he  had  found  and  kept  as  a  curi- 
osity. Why  is  it  that  we  value  the  love  of  those  we  call 
the  poor  with  so  much  tenderer  a  value  than  that  of  those 
who  have  our  kind  of  culture  ? 

(Undated.)  Do  you  know  what  I  have  been  doing  the 
last  three  days  ?  Living  in  another  world  —  a  world  of 
grace,  piety,  and  love,  exquisiteness  of  all  kinds  —  which 
I  think  has  done  me  some  little  good.  I  hope  to  be  less 
censorious,  since  certainly  I  find  less  difference  between 
myself  and  those  I  think  most  meanly  of  than  between 
myself  and  the  angels  of  which  this  book,  "  Le  Recit  d'une 
Soeur,"  by  Madame  Augustus  Craven,  gives  the  sacred 
and  touching  history.  I  charge  you  to  get  that  book  at 
once,  if  you  have  not  already  read  it.  The  mother's  char- 
acter in  its  humility  and  self-forgetf ulness  reminds  me  not 
a  little  of  my  precious  mother.  The  book  is  full  of  ex- 
quisite thoughts,  and  the  characters  depicted  have  a  love- 
liness, an  attractiveness,  a  perfection  of  grace,  refinement, 
spontaneity,  which  certainly  I  have  never  met  with  before 
in  any  biography  whatever.  You  won't  mind  their  being- 
Catholics. 

(Undated.)  Miss seems  to  have  lived  such  a  pale 

life.  I  doubt  if  she  has  ever  come  into  contact  with  any- 
thing but  "  decencies  forever  "  —  no  passion,  no  agony,  no 
deep  feeling,  no  strenuous  effort  to  rise.  In  the  long  run 
I  should  prefer  the  society  of  a  convict. 

(Undated.)  I  send  you 's  last  address.  Printing 

is  a  disease,  I  think,  with  him,  but  he  is  so  nice  and  taking 
in  so  many  ways,  and  "  I  'm  no  pairfect  mysel',"  nor  I 
suppose  is  William  so,  though  /  find  him  so,  and  cannot 
conceive  living  happily  —  I  mean  / —  with  any  other  hu- 
man creature.  One  is  so  free  with  him,  so  safe  —  thought 
may  beat  its  wings  in  sustaining,  never  restricting,  air. 
All  other  companionship  is  a  cage,  more  or  less  wide.  In 
all  others  the  very  pleasure  of  it  wearies  —  in  his  enjoy- 


402  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

ment  is  also  rest.  Such  is  your  happy  experience  —  you 
two  peculiarly  blessed  ones.  Well,  now  I  hurry  on,  for 
the  postman  conies  for  letters  now  at  two  o'clock.  The 
other  day  Miss called,  and  having  talked  of  Switzer- 
land all  the  time  (I  liked  that),  just  said  as  she  was  going 
away,  "  I  hoped  you  liked  my  dear  Mr.  Constable  !  "  Not 
the  remotest  idea  that  I  had  ever  seen  you  before,  nor  has 
she  by  this  time  the  remotest  idea  of  it,  spite  of  all  I  said. 

Miss ignores  one's  existence  so  totally.  There  is 

discourtesy  in  her  blandest  tones,  therefore,  because  the 
first  element  of  courtesy  is  to  make  another  feel  that  they 
are  recognized  —  as  entities  at  least,  as  something,  even 
if  a  disagreeable  thing.  Miss is  both  insolent,  virtu- 
ally so,  and  insincere.  Yet  I  don't  hate  her,  but  I  do 
think  her  hateful. 

(Undated.)  It  is  all  mystery —  but  surely  love  never 
dieth.  At  Bath  we  met  some  charming  people,  excellent 
people  in  all  the  affairs  of  life,  mild,  indulgent  in  temper 
and  judgment,  and  they  are  quite  enthusiastic  about  their 
faith  of  the  negative  kind  —  no  God  conceivable,  and  de- 
cidedly no  immortality  !  I  felt  with  them  as  one  may  on 
a  glacier  —  beautiful  to  the  eye,  sunlit  like  the  rest,  but 
deadly  cold  to  touch.  Then  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  a  dear 
good  meek  soul,  who  after  agonies  of  inward  conflict,  and 
a  night  spent  on  the  floor  —  alone  with  God  —  crying  out 
of  its  depths  for  guidance,  believed  itself  guided  to  the 
Church  of  Rome.  And  finally  I  had  long  talks  with  a 
fervent  semi-Swedenborgian.  But  all  these  were  earnest, 
unworldly,  superior  either  intellectually  or  morally  or 
both. 

(1870?)  And  so  there  is  another  of  those  absurd  — 
absurd  only  they  are  so  melancholy  —  persecutions  going 
on  among  the  U.  P.'s,  as  well  as  elsewhere.  Who  can, 
who  does,  hold  to  that  extract  from  the  Westminster 
standards?  It  seems  as  though  the  human  mind  was 
undergoing  some  organic  change,  and  not  only  could  not 


RIPENING    YEARS.  403 

believe,  but  could  not  conceive  of  as  believable,  many  and 
many  a  doctrine  taught  me  in  my  childhood,  unhesita- 
tingly subscribed  to  by  me  till  of  later  years,  —  nay,  never 
questioned  in  words  by  that  blessed  mother  of  mine,  who 
was  all  tenderness,  as  you  know,  and  would  not  have  hurt 
a  fly,  yet  who  was  never  consciously  delivered  from  the 
bondage  of  a  terrific  creed.  Not,  sweet  soul,  that,  save 
perhaps  for  herself,  it  ever  did  terrify  her.  Good  hearts 
are  driven  to  bad  logic  in  such  cases.  But  oh,  the  diffi- 
culty of  the  whole  question  —  the  difficulty  of  retaining  I 
That  is,  I  believe,  the  great  trial  of  the  present  time  to  all 
those  on  whom  is  laid  the  necessity  of  thinking,  and  it  is 
just  the  purest  and  best  who  realize  the  pang.  A  nature 
like  mine  is  too  frivolous,  too  much  at  the  call  of  trivial 
interests,  to  feel  it  save  in  flashes  ;  and  as  regards  conduct 
there  is  no  difficulty  in  knowing  the  right  at  all  events. 

(1870.)  The  sorrow  the  death  of  Charles  Dickens 
has  given  me  I  cannot  put  into  words.  All  England  must 
mourn,  and  would  have  better  missed,  I  think,  any  other 
man.  I  feel  that  a  source  of  personal  happiness  is  closed 
to  me.  Perhaps  no  one  but  a  person  living  out  of  society 
and  without  personal  cares  could  so  look  forward  to  those 
green  numbers  as  I  did.  No  other  writer  can  give  the 
vivid  delight  this  true  genius  gave. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

THINKER   AND    LOVER. 

OF  this  so  joyful  double  life  a  part  at  least  of  the  se- 
cret is  an  open  one.  No  endowment  and  no  propitious 
circumstance  can  open  the  gates  of  this  Eden  save  to  the 
pure  in  heart  and  the  disciplined  in  life.  How  absent 
from  these  two  are  all  rivalry,  ambition,  jealousy !  Not 
one  pursuit  or  passion  here  that  brings  collision  with  an- 
other's good.  And  they  are  free,  too,  from  that  which 
so  commonly  mars  life's  joy,  —  anxiety  about  material 
things.  Most  of  mankind  are  forever  troubled  about 
food  and  raiment.  This  pair  seem  as  care-free  and  as 
joyous  as  the  sparrows  and  lilies.  But  they  earn  the 
freedom  with  a  double  price,  which  is  gladly  paid. 
They  limit  their  wants,  and  they  husband  their  resources. 
An  utmost  modesty  of  desire  and  a  scrupulous  economy 
win  for  them  exemption  from  the  fear  and  care  that 
haunt  so  many  households.  How  womanly  and  delight- 
ful are  the  touches  in  the  wife's  letters  of  just  an  oc- 
casional subdued  regret  for  daintiness  and  prettiness 
which  they  must  forego  !  Those  very  light  and  transient 
regrets  are  all  it  costs  them  to  give  up  the  luxury  and 
elegance  which  are  to  so  many  the  end  and  aim  of  life. 
Luxury?  Have  they  not  love,  thought,  each  other? 
Elegance  ?  This  whole  glorious  world  of  beauty  is  theirs, 
this  world  of  humanity  too,  by  the  tenure  of  reverence 
and  sympathy.  Little  does  it  reck  them  of  fine  clothes, 
houses,  equipages  !  •  But  there  is  in  them  no  fancied  su- 
periority to  responsibilities  of  pounds,  shillings,  and 
pence ;  down  to  a  postage  stamp,  every  expense  is  care- 


THINKER   AND  LOVER.  405 

fully  measured.  So  they  honestly  pay  the  price  of  their 
liberty :  moderate  wants,  strict  economy,  —  and  hence, 
nights  and  days  undisturbed  by  care. 

Their  paradise  secludes  them  in  a  way  from  the  rest 
of  the  world ;  yet  the  wife  we  see  preserves  active  and 
sympathetic  relations  with  a  wide  circle  of  friends,  makes 
kindly  ties  in  every  new  lodging-house  wherever  their 
transient  home  is  made,  becomes  a  gracious  helper  among 
the  poor.  But  the  husband,  save  for  her  society,  appears 
almost  as  much  as  ever  a  recluse.  That  innate  bent  to 
solitude,  or  the  second  nature  wrought  in  the  long  years, 
does  not  yield  even  to  the  spell  of  her  influence.  He 
lives  in  her  and  in  his  thoughts.  So  interior  is  his  life,  so 
little  has  it  of  outward  action  even  in  little  things,  that 
not  even  her  letters  often  show  him  to  us  in  any  distinct 
picture.  The  finest  camera  cannot  take  photographs 
from  a  life  that  is  all  thought  and  no  action.  The 
reader  may  sometimes  wish  that  of  the  actors  in  this 
drama  of  two  the  man's  figure  stood  out  more  distinctly. 
To  read  the  wife's  story  is  like  looking  at  a  religious  pic- 
ture, where  the  face  of  the  adoring  saint  glows  on  the  can- 
vas, but  of  what  the  saint  sees  only  a  hint  is  disclosed. 
Nor  can  we  much  supply  the  want  from  other  sources. 
Those  who  met  William  Smith  felt  a  rare  charm  in  him, 
but  it  was  something  so  subtle,  so  little  embodied  in  defi- 
nite acts,  that  small  record  of  it  could  be  made.  One  or 
two  glimpses  of  him  we  may  here  borrow,  from  a  friendly 
and  impartial  observer,  who  shows  him  to  us  doubtless  as 
he  appeared  to  those  who  were  not  of  his  inner  circle. 
Mr.  Alexander  Strahan,  so  often  mentioned  by  Lucy 
Smith,  contributed  to  the  "Day  of  Rest"  for  August, 
1881,  as  one  number  of  "  Twenty  Years  of  a  Publisher's 
Life,"  a  sketch  of  William  Smith  ;  and  from  it  we  quote 
the  most  descriptive  passages. 

Tt  was  either  late  in  1861  or  in  the  beginning  of  1862  that 
one  forenoon  Mrs.  Smith  called  at  my  office.  As  I  went  for- 


40G  WILLIAM   AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

ward  to  meet  her,  I  noticed,  a  step  or  two  behind  her,  a  slightly- 
built  gentleman,  somewhat  below  the  middle  height,  and  no 
longer  young,  though  at  the  same  time  not  showing  age  much. 
He  had  stopped  in  following  Mrs.  Smith,  and  was,  in  fact,  look- 
ing disturbed,  and  as  if,  on  the  whole,  he  would  rather  be  on 
the  other  side  of  the  door.  I  scarcely  needed  telling  that  I  at 
length  saw  the  author  of  "  Thorndale."  The  shyness  which  he 
showed  was  shyness  of  a  very  peculiar  kind.  After  the  first 
minute,  it  did  not  pain  an  observer  to  witness  it.  Hardly  could 
it  be  said  that  as  you  talked  on  it  passed  away  ;  it,  in  some  de- 
gree, stayed,  but  you  came  not  to  take  it  into  account.  A  smile 
of  perfect  graciousness  began  to  flit  over  his  face,  and  the  bright 
dark  eyes  met  yours  fully,  in  no  way  shrinking  from  looking 
into  your  mind,  and  quite  ready  to  be  looked  into.  But  for  the 
eyes,  the  face  scarcely  could  be  called  impressive,  though  it  grew 
more  and  more  interesting  as  you  gazed.  The  forehead  was 
not  high,  but  was  well-formed.  I  afterwards  found  that  he 
might  fairly  be  described  as  a  brilliant  talker,  when  he  was  once 
roused.  At  this  earliest  meeting,  however,  in  spite  of  some  un- 
concealed encouragement  from  Mrs.  Smith,  the  remarks  he 
made  were  very  brief,  though  always  prompt  and  given  with  a 
smile.  The  shyness,  meanwhile,  went  a  little,  came  back  again, 
and  afresh  faded,  but  towards  the  close  of  the  talk  it  was  rein- 
stated in  nearly  full  force  on  my  venturing  to  allude  to  his  writ- 
ings. I  found  that  the  diffidence  could  become  an  actual  em- 
barrassment if  one  did  not  restrain  the  natural  impulse  to  offer 
words  of  praise.  But  the  instant  the  conversation  turned  away 
from  himself,  Mr.  Smith's  mind  quieted  again.  Taken  alto- 
gether, there  was,  as  I  now  try  to  recall  that  first  interview, 
something  nearly  boyish  in  Mr.  Smith's  bearing,  —  a  touch  of 
old-fashionedness,  as  though  he  had  strayed  for  a  minute  into 
this  world  out  of  another ;  but  it  was  another  world  which,  if 
not  so  bustling  as  this,  was  kinder,  and  in  which  everybody  was 
very  sincere.  Only  in  some  such  way  can  I  try  to  explain  to 
myself  the  readiness  with  which  you  felt  at  full  ease  with  one 
who  was  so  shy  constitutionally.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith  were  at 
this  time  living  at  Brighton,  and  I  very  willingly  accepted  a 
kind  invitation  that  I  should  visit  them  there. 

Some  months  passed  before  an  opportunity  for  the  visit  of- 


THINKER   AND  LOVER.  407 

fered,  and  when  it  did,  and  I  was  shown  into  the  pleasant  lodg- 
ings they  occupied,  I  was  for  a  moment  a  good  deal  puzzled. 
The  gentleman  who  hastily  rose  from  a  writing-desk  to  welcome 
me,  eager  to  be  prompt  in  his  kind  greeting,  and  yet  a  little 
shrinking  from  having  to  offer  it,  was  Mr.  Smith,  and  yet 
scarcely  so.  A  second's  gazing,  helped  by  a  smile  which  made 
the  white  teeth  flash  out  in  the  centre  of  a  heavy  beard,  ren- 
dered it  all  plain  ;  when  I  previously  saw  the  author  of  "  Thorn- 
dale,"  he  wore  only  very  short  whiskers  on  the  upper  part  of 
the  cheek.  A  beard  does  not  greatly  alter  some  faces,  but  there 
are  others  which  it  nearly  transforms,  and  William  Smith's  vis- 
age belonged  to  the  latter  class.  During  that  too  short  visit  I 
first  learned  what  a  radiant  gayety  could  be  shed  out  of  his 
strangely  shy  heart  upon  all  around  him.  I  should  not  be  jus- 
tified in  trying  to  picture  the  idyllic  scene  which  their  hearth 
then,  as  always,  presented  to  the  visitor.  But  the  remembrance 
of  it  is  very  pleasant  to  those  who  ever  witnessed  it.  Many 
people,  who  had  not  thought  out  its  likelihood  beforehand, 
would  have  been  surprised  to  find  that  an  acute  ethical  thinker 
and  recondite  metaphysician  could  be  so  merry  in  a  large  part 
of  his  talk.  True,  it  alternated.  In  the  midst  of  the  light  wit 
some  very  serious  reflection  would  from  time  to  time  peep  out ; 
even  though,  in  the  fashion  of  its  utterer,  it  hurried  to  hide  itself 
again.  The  general  impression  produced  upon  you  was  that 
you  were  in  the  society  of  a  perfectly  original  man ;  one  who 
valued  at  very  little  most  of  the  honours  and  the  possessions 
prized  by  people  in  general,  but  who  had  deliberately  stepped 
aside  from  the  ordinary  ambitions,  to  give  himself  up  to  think- 
ing everything  out  for  himself,  and  living  in  his  own  self- 
prompted  way,  undisturbed. 

...  It  may  have  the  trivial  interest  which  belongs  to  even 
the  peculiarities  of  notable  men  to  set  down  among  these  brief 
memories  of  Mr.  Smith  that,  on  our  reaching  home,  he,  and  not 
Mrs.  Smith,  at  once  proceeded  to  concoct  tea.  I  hardly  think 
that  word  too  elaborate  for  the  occasion,  since  the  process  itself 
was  laborious,  careful,  minute.  It  was  throughout  accompanied 
by  a  half -jocose  running  commentary  on  his  part,  but  this  make- 
believe  at  fun  was  not  allowed  to  interfere  in  the  least  with  the 
serious  proceeding.  Nobody  but  himself,  he  semi-pathetically 


408  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

said,  would  take  the  pains  to  make  tea  properly.  Then  came 
some  solemn  explanations  as  to  the  rules  which  were  necessary 
to  be  rightly  observed  ;  these,  I  think  I  can  remember,  involved 
a  preliminary  warming  of  the  pot,  a  catching  the  water  for  the 
infusing  at  just  a  particular  state  of  ebullition,  the  allowing  the 
herb  to  "  draw  "  for  only  a  given  number  of  minutes,  or  perhaps 
it  was  seconds ;  and  I  know  not  what  other  critical  ceremonies. 
The  result,  I  may  state,  was  very  satisfactory ;  and  Mr.  Smith 
evidently  enjoyed  it  as  much  as  Dr.  Johnson  himself  could  have 
done,  though  a  smaller  number  of  cups  satisfied  him. 

.  .  .  From  this  time  I  usually  saw  Mr.  Smith  whenever  he 
came  to  London,  and  some  matters  of  financial  business  brought 
him  up  to  town  at  fixed  periods.  On  one  of  these  occasions,  I, 
though  not  without  a  little  trouble,  got  him  to  accept  an  invita- 
tion to  spend  an  evening  with  me  at  my  home  in  Bayswater,  to 
meet  some  friends  of  my  own.  These  included,  among  others, 
Dr.  Norman  Macleod,  who  had  expressed  to  me  a  strong  wish 
to  make  the  acquaintance  of  William  Smith.  It  was  curious, 
and  I  may  perhaps  be  allowed  to  say  a  little  amusing,  to  note 
the  author  of  "  Thorndale's  "  shy  demeanour  among  the  group 
of  admirers  he  found  himself  surrounded  by.  There  was,  I 
should  say,  not  one  present  who  did  not  feel  intellectually  in- 
debted to  him,  and  it  was  not  very  unnatural  that  they  should 
wish  to  acknowledge  this  to  him,  and  to  offer  him  their  thanks. 
But  a  compliment  always  alarmed  William  Smith.  I  saw  him, 
in  a  flutter  of  mental  distress,  turn  his  looks  away  from  first  one 
and  then  another,  who  had  only  inflicted  on  him  the  injury  of 
offering  him  praise.  I  went  to  his  help,  and  tried  to  protect 
him  against  this  paying  of  compliments,  which  most  men  would 
have  given  much  to  receive. 

As  I  now  think  of  him,  William  Smith  stands  out  a  very  dis- 
tinct figure  in  the  circle  of  that  evening.  There  were  men  there 
well  known  in  literature,  some  more  conspicuously  public  than 
he  ;  but  none  of  the  others  so  differed  from  each  other  as  he  did 
from  them  all.  I  should  suppose  that,  so  far  as  mere  money 
rewards  went,  he  had  been  the  least  successful  of  that  group  of 
writers.  But  every  one  of  them  showed  him  a  kind  of  defer- 
ence. I  fancy  they  all  felt  that  this  slight,  dark-eyed  man,  who 
was  as  diffident  as  he  was  able,  and  to  whom  neither  achieve- 


THINKER   AND  LOVER.  409 

ment  nor  age  brought  self-confidence,  had  made  more  personal 
sacrifices  for  letters  than  any  other  there,  and  in  a  certain  sense 
had  done  their  common  vocation  most  honour,  by  pursuing  liter- 
ature more  completely  for  her  own  sake.  Dr.  Macleod,  after 
some  talk  with  him,  took  occasion  to  whisper  to  me,  "  Smith  has 
more  brains  than  all  the  lot  of  us,  and  a  heart  as  pure  as  a 
woman's.  I  wish  I  could  meet  the  man  every  day." 

Some  such  opinion,  and  some  such  wish  as  this,  William 
Smith  inspired  in  all  who  were  brought  into  contact  with  him  ; 
and  this  without  seeking  it,  or  even  desiring  it,  anxious  only  that 
people  would  not  talk  of  him,  or  think  of  him,  but  pass  him  by. 
It  was  not  possible  to  lend  yourself  so  entirely  to  his  shyness. 
Some  words,  despite  his  silence  and  shrinking,  were  sure  to  fall 
from  him,  which  sounded  like  things  spoken  from  a  higher  plane 
of  living,  and  you  recognized  in  his  simplicity  a  wise  originality 
which  witnessed  to  you  that  you  were  communicating  with  a  stu- 
dent of  the  most  perfect  ideal  type,  who  was  dealing  with  the 
facts  of  experience  at  first  hand,  and  so  was  able  to  dispense 
with  conventionality. 

In  his  letters  to  Mr.  Loomis,  there  are  occasional 
touches  of  regret  at  his  being,  as  he  says,  an  "  idler." 
The  wish  that  he  might  have  had  more  of  active  occu- 
pation, a  freer  mingling  with  men  and  women  as  his  wife 
mingled  with  them,  can  hardly  fail  to  occur  to  the 
reader.  Whether  his  extreme  seclusion  was  an  innate 
necessity  of  his  nature,  it  is  in  vain  to  ask.  Nature,  or 
circumstance,  with  how  large  an  influence  from  voluntary 
acquiescence  no  one  can  say,  had  set  him  in  a  solitude 
of  spirit,  apart  from  his  kind.  Across  the  gulf  his  wife 
came  to  him  like  an  angel,  and  made  almost  a  heaven  for 
him.  She  went  freely  to  and  fro,  always  closely  compan- 
ioning him,  but  one  also  with  her  kind.  But  he,  save  for 
loving  ties  with  some  who  were  near  of  blood,  had  his 
only  society  in  her.  To  the  end,  as  at  first,  it  was  with 
him,  — 

"  Thee,  Nature,  Thought  —  that  burns  in  me 
A  living  and  consuming  flame." 


410  WILLIAM  AND   LUCY  SMITH. 

And  in  that  element  of  thought  lay  his  real  communion 
with  mankind  at  large.  Whatever  treasures  he  found 
there,  he  was  eager  to  share.  In  action,  in  lineament  — 
in  flesh  and  blood,  so  to  speak  —  he  is  somewhat  shadowy 
to  us,  but  in  his  books  we  feel  the  throb  and  thrill  of  the 
currents  of  his  heart  and  brain. 

He  completed  no  book  after  "  Gravenhurst."  Possibly 
he  might  have  done  so  had  he  had  the  stimulus  of  a  more 
marked  success  for  that  book  and  for  "Thorndale." 
They  found  many  admirers,  lovers  not  a  few,  but  hardly 
the  unmistakable  award  of  a  genuine  and  great  success. 
The  wife's  letters  of  later  years  tell  that  her  husband  had 
some  feeling  of  discouragement  from  their  want  of  suc- 
cess, —  and  that  once  he  said,  "  with  such  a  light  leaping 
up  in  the  brown  eyes,"  "  They  will  reprint  them  when  I 
am  dead !  "  Shyly  as  he  shrank  from  open  praise,  he 
needed  the  encouragement  of  recognition.  Every  man 
who  writes  for  the  public  needs  —  and  needs  all  the  more 
if  he  be  truly  modest  —  a  fair  measure  of  success,  to  cer- 
tify to  him  that  his  work  is  worth  doing.  This  disappoint- 
ment, like  earlier  ones,  was  borne  with  equanimity ;  even 
to  the  partner  of  his  inuiost  thoughts  there  was  scarcely  a 
complaint  —  but  it  perhaps  had  an  effect  in  preventing 
further  attempts.  Thenceforth,  his  principal  work  was  a 
continuation  of  the  reviews  in  "  Blackwood."  But  he  was 
always  thinking,  pondering,  fascinated  by  the  problems  of 
existence  —  and  with  occasional  purpose  of  embodying  the 
results.  The  nearest  approach  to  such  an  embodiment 
was  the  three  essays  on  "  Knowing  and  Feeling."  To 
these,  after  his  death,  his  wife  added  a  fourth,  from  his 
manuscript,  and  they  are  published  as  a  treatise  by  them- 
selves in  the  volume  which  also  contains  u  Gravenhurst  " 
and  the  "  Memoir." 

A  severe  task  it  is  to  read  this  "  Knowing  and  Feel- 
ing: a  Contribution  to  Psychology;"  yet  to  the  serious 
student  a  richly  repaying  task.  The  style  is  lucid,  but  the 


THINKER  AND  LOVER.  411 

lines  run  along  the  abstrusest  provinces  of  thought.  It  is 
an  essay  in  psychology  by  the  introspective  method.  The 
standpoint  is  that  of  the  Evolutionist.  Our  author's  ex- 
position begins  at  the  dawn  of  human  consciousness,  and 
—  leaving  on  one  side  man's  "  poor  relations,"  and 
perhaps  his  ancestors,  —  he  studies  the  progress  of  man 
as  the  development  of  twin  faculties,  knowing  and  feeling. 
Both  sensation  and  cognition  are  present,  he  maintains, 
in  the  earliest  rudimentary  consciousness  of  man :  along 
this  double  line  he  grows.  Sensation  flowers  into  pas- 
sion ;  cognition  —  at  first  the  mere  perception  of  a  resist- 
ing substance  encountered  through  the  muscular  move- 
ment of  the  body  —  passes  up  through  various  forms  of 
sense-perception  into  ever  fuller  knowledge  of  surround- 
ing objects.  Passion  and  knowledge  act  and  react  on 
each  other ;  the  original  simple  passions  of  love  and  hate, 
becoming  objects  of  reflection,  are  discerned  as  of  differ- 
ent worth;  love  is  thereby  encouraged,  and  hate  is 
restricted.  Revenge  is  slowly  modified  into  justice,  and 
justice  rises  into  higher  forms.  Out  of  pleasure  in  the 
approbation  of  others,  and  suffering  in  their  disapproval 
(a  judgment  and  a  feeling  blended,  both  in  those  who 
exercise  the  approval  or  disapproval  and  in  those  who 
receive  it),  grows  a  sense  of  accountability,  of  moral  re- 
sponsibility. While  thought  educates  and  purifies  emo- 
tion, emotion  renders  back  an  equal  service  by  stimula- 
ting thought.  So  there  is  a  perpetual,  orderly  growth. 
The  order  is  universal  —  not  even  to  the  human  will  be- 
longs arbitrariness  or  caprice  ;  the  action  of  the  will  is 
swayed  by  the  antecedent  conditions  of  the  individual; 
and  the  compatibility  of  this  view  with  a  system  of  re- 
wards and  punishments,  and  with  moral  development, 
is  ingeniously  and  effectively  set  forth. 

This  is  a  rough  and  imperfect  hint  of  the  main  lines 
of  thought.  It  is  a  treatise  requiring  such  close  study 
that  we  cannot  to  advantage  illustrate  it  by  large  quota- 


412  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

tion,  as  was  practicable  with  "  Thorndale  "  and  "  Graven- 
hurst."  Its  views  are  in  line  with  modern  knowledge,  in 
sympathy  with  much  that  is  current  in  modern  spec- 
ulation, yet  so  independent  and  at  points  so  divergent 
from  the  now  prevalent  philosophies  that  it  cannot  be 
classed  under  any  of  them.  The  author  ranks  himself 
neither  with  the  sensational  nor  the  intuitional  school  of 
psychology.  As  against  the. former  he  maintains  that  an 
element  of  real  knowledge  coexists  with  sensation  even  in 
the  earliest  stages  of  human  consciousness.  As  against 
the  intuitional  school,  with  its  assertion  that  the  mind  is 
endowed  from  the  first  with  certain  highest  truths,  he 
holds  that  it  is  not  in  the  earlier  but  in  the  later  stages 
of  human  development  that  we  must  look  for  the  most 
authoritative  principles. 

The  treatise,  of  about  a  hundred  pages,  shows  in  the 
last  chapter,  on  "  Our  Passions  "  (supplied  by  the  wife 
from  the  husband's  manuscript),  that  the  writer  had  in 
view  a  continuation  into  broader  fields.  The  chapter  be- 
gins, "  Before  we  approach  the  problems  of  Sociology,  we 
should  frame  for  ourselves  some  distinct  ideas  of  man  as  a 
social  being ; "  and  it  ends  thus  :  "  Having  thus  seen  the 
elasticity  and  growth  of  human  passion  —  following,  in 
short,  human  knowledge  and  change  of  outward  circum- 
stance —  we  are  somewhat  better  prepared  to  enter  on  a 
survey  of  the  past  with  some  hope  of  dimly  foreseeing  the 
future."  The  frustration  of  this  purpose  is  peculiarly 
tantalizing,  because  both  in  "  Thorndale  "  and  "  Graven- 
hurst"  the  passages  dealing  with  psychological  analysis 
fall  far  short,  in  interest  for  the  general  reader,  of  what 
may  be  called  the  sociological  chapters. 

There  is  much  in  the  treatise,  which,  if  assimilated  and 
familiarized,  yields  very  fruitful  applications  both  to  social 
administration  and  personal  conduct.  But  the  abstruse- 
ness  of  its  fundamental  lines,  the  remoteness  from  the 
familiar  and  homely  interests  of  men,  accords  well  with 


THINKER  AND  LOVER.  413 

those  moods  of  rapt  absorption  in  which  we  see  that  our 
thinker  passed  much  of  his  life,  —  moods  which  he  has 
portrayed  graphically  in  the  passage  which  his  wife  cites 
in  the  preceding  chapter. 

At  a  single  point  we  detach  from  the  closely-wrought 
structure  of  the  essays  certain  passages  which  touch  a 
question  of  great  practical  moment.  They  occur  in  the 
discussion  of  the  Will.  The  author's  analysis  of  the  Will 
—  beyond  its  primitive  significance  of  "  the  relation  be- 
tween the  psychical  and  physical  properties  of  man "  — 
resolves  it  into  a  combination  of  desire  and  knowledge. 
"  A  mere  mental  resolve  to  perform  a  certain  action  at  a 
future  time  can  be  nothing  but  thought  and  desire,  some 
combination  of  our  old  familiar  elements  of  judgment  and 
feeling."  But  that  he  recognizes  a  substantial  reality  un- 
der what  is  generally  called  free-will  is  made  very  clear. 

If  the  advocates  of  free-will  only  demand  the  acknowledg- 
ment of  an  intellectual  energy  which  none  of  us  can  sound  or 
fathom,  and  which  is  the  last  gift  from  the  hand  of  God,  I  for 
one  have  no  controversy  with  them ;  that  such  energy  must  at 
each  stage  receive  the  conditions  on  which  it  works  is  also  a 
truth  which  they,  perhaps,  on  their  side  would  feel  bound  to 
acknowledge.  (Page  437.) 

But  unquestionably  modern  knowledge  does  greatly 
limit  that  freedom  of  the  will  which  was  claimed  when 
men  knew  less  of  the  interdependence  of  body  and  mind. 
And  it  is  of  the  highest  interest  to  see  how  the  new  esti- 
mate can  be  adjusted  to  the  moral  necessities  of  the  indi- 
vidual and  the  society.  It  is  on  this  head  that  we  cite 
some  passages,  whose  large  wisdom  may  be  felt  without 
committing  ourselves  to  any  theory  on  the  nature  of  the 
Will. 

Though  we  assign  to  him  —  to  each  individual  man  —  the  in- 
divisible soul  we  are  all  in  imagination  so  familiar  with,  is  not 
this  new  entity  itself  reacted  on  by  the  material  instruments  it  is 


414  WILLIAM  AND  MARY  SMITH. 

compelled  to  employ  ?  These  nerves,  this  brain,  are  its  slaves, 
and  its  tyrants  also.  They  receive  impressions  or  modifications 
from  the  very  work  they  are  engaged  in,  they  grow  this  way  or 
that  by  their  very  activity  (growth  which  we  call  habit),  and  will 
at  length  perform  work  only  of  one  kind.  So  the  past  comes  to 
determine  the  present.  In  this,  or  some  other  way,  man  finds 
out  that  there  is  within  his  own  little  kingdom  of  mind,  or  self, 
an  evolution,  in  which  what  has  been  determines  what  will  be  ; 
determines  it  to  us,  to  our  apprehension,  who  see  only  the 
growth,  and  cannot  dive  down  to  the  grower,  whether  of  the 
plant  or  the  mind. 

If  this  be  so,  the  startling  reflection  occurs,  What  becomes  of 
our  moral  responsibility  ?  Do  we  not  punish  this  or  that  scoun- 
drel in  the  firm  faith  that  it  depended  on  himself,  at  every  mo- 
ment of  his  life,  whether  he  would  be  a  scoundrel  or  not  ?  How 
can  I  continue  to  punish  him,  or  to  punish  him  with  the  same 
sense  of  justice,  if  I  am  to  believe  that  he  grew  into  a  scoundrel 
by  the  laws  of  nature  —  laws  somewhat  more  complicate,  but  of 
the  same  kind,  that  grow  a  tiger  or  a  domestic  dog  ?  And, 
moreover,  if  I  myself  am  the  person  punished,  in  what  spirit  am 
I  to  receive  my  punishment?  Good  for  the  whole,  you  say.  A 
necessity  is  imposed  on  society  to  punish,  and  it  is  a  necessity 
for  me  to  submit.  Perhaps  I  may  profit  by  it.  But  what  of 
this  sentiment  of  remorse  —  of  self-reproof  ?  If  crime  was  a 
misfortune  or  a  misery  in  some  other  man,  it  was  but  a  misfor- 
tune and  a  misery  in  me.  (Pages  373,  374.) 

Presuming  we  have  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  mind  and 
matter,  psychical  as  well  as  physical  qualities,  are  all  parts  of 
one  stupendous  scheme,  parts  of  that  harmonious  whole  we 
ascribe  to  the  Infinite  Power,  which  again  manifests  itself  to  us  in 
that  whole  —  presuming  that  some  such  philosophical  doctrine 
were  generally  accepted,  what  would  be  its  influence  on  our 
moral  sentiments  ? 

I  can  well  understand  that  a  man  with  very  vague  notions 
about  desert  and  punishment  might,  on  first  becoming  acquainted 
with  such  a  philosophy,  be  disposed  to  extract  from  it  an  excuse 
for  self-indulgence.  He  has  offended  some  one,  who  threatens 
punishment,  and  he  pleads  the  necessity  of  the  case,  that  "he 
could  not  help  it "  —  that,  in  short,  his  passions  were  too  strong 


THINKER   AND  LOVER.  415 

to  be  controlled.  Some  such  colloquy  as  the  following  might 
take  place :  — 

"But  you  could  help  it,"  the  offended  man  might  retort. 
"  You  had  the  two  courses  of  conduct  placed  before  you,  and  you 
chose  this" 

*'  Very  true  ;  I  chose.  But  then,  as  you  know,  I  had  certain 
habits  and  tastes,  and  but  a  certain  amount  of  knowledge.  I 
could  not  choose  otherwise." 

"  It  was  your  duty  not  to  let  such  habits  and  tastes,  as  you 
call  them,  become  predominant.  It  is  the  first  purpose  of  every 
intelligent  man  to  form  his  own  character ;  you  had  the  power 
to  watch  over  yourself,  and  to  check  your*  self-indulgences." 

"  True  again  ;  but  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  I  could  not 
exercise  a  supervision  over  my  own  habits  and  tastes,  with  a 
view  to  the  formation  of  my  own  character,  unless  I  had  this 
very  purpose  of  forming  a  character.  My  power  here  is  simply 
an  acting  or  thinking  under  the  influence  of  such  a  purpose. 
Now  no  such  purpose  has  ever  grown  up  in  me,  or  it  has  been  a 
plant  of  an  extremely  feeble  description.  I  have  been  chiefly 
occupied  with  such  chance  pleasures  —  they  have  been  few 
enough  —  that  came  within  my  reach.  You,  I  believe,  have  had 
this  solemn  purpose  of  forming  a  character ;  I  congratulate  you 
upon  it ;  in  me  it  has  not  been  evolved." 

Here  the  offended  man  will  probably  break  off  the  colloquy. 
"  All  I  can  say  is  this,"  he  will  ultimately  reply,  "  that  if  you 
do  it  again  I  will  so  punish  you  that  you  will  choose  better  for 
the  future." 

And  if  this  is  an  earnest  threat  it  will  very  likely  be  effectual, 
and  lead  to  some  better  choice  on  the  next  occasion.  It  may 
also  lead  our  tyro  in  philosophy  to  some  reflection  on  the  nature 
of  punishment.  Based  on  the  past  deed,  its  operation  is  really 
prospective.  It  stands  between  the  past  and  the  future.  It  is, 
in  short,  an  instrument  of  education ;  a  coarse  instrument,  but 
indispensable. 

Moreover,  even  the  offended  man,  when  his  anger  has  sub- 
sided, may  gather  something  from  such  a  colloquy.  He,  too, 
will  be  led  to  reflect  on  the  nature  of  vice  and  its  punishment. 
He  knows  that  in  some  extreme  cases  society  can  think  only  of 
self-defence.  It  either  exterminates  the  criminal  or  incarcer- 


416  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

ates  him,  just  as  we  are  compelled  to  shoot  a  tiger  or  shut  it  in 
a  cage.  But  these  cases  excepted,  he  too  will  note  that  punish- 
ment is  in  its  nature  a  mode  of  education,  and  a  mode  not  to  be 
resorted  to  while  there  are  other  blander  or  more  effectual 
modes  within  reach. 

What  gain  could  it  be  to  an  individual  to  relieve  him  from 
punishment  on  the  plea  that  passion  and  habit  were  too  strong 
for  him,  and  that  he  "  could  not  help  it  ?  "  The  more  need  that 
society  should  come  to  his  aid  and  help  him  "  to  help  it."  What 
are  any  of  us  without  the  control  of  society  ? 

Look  into  the  village  school.  Here  is  an  idle  boy  who 
lounges,  and  sulks,  and  slumbers  over  his  book.  In  fact,  he  is 
fat,  and  lethargic  in  his  temperament.  A  physiologist  will  sug- 
gest good  reasons  for  his  indolence.  He  cannot  help  it.  Left 
to  himself  he  cannot.  But  the  schoolmaster  comes  to  his  assist- 
ance, applies  reproof,  shames  him  in  the  eyes  of  his  fellow- 
pupils  ;  if  need  be,  applies  the  cane.  The  boy  struggles  through 
his  task.  Thus  stimulated,  he  becomes  intelligent  of  something 
beyond  marbles  and  peg-top.  Would  it  have  been  kindness, 
would  it  have  been  well,  for  him  or  the  community,  if  the  plea 
*'  he  could  not  help  it "  had  been  listened  to,  and  the  lethargic 
temperament  left  in  undisputed  predominance  ?  It  was  pre- 
dominant, and  for  that  reason,  doubtless  much  to  his  regret,  the 
schoolmaster  was  compelled  to  administer  the  sharp  stimulant  of 
the  cane.  (Pages  377-380.) 

Public  punishments,  such  as  are  administered  by  the  laws,  are 
administered  by  the  whole  society,  by  the  whole  community,  for 
its  own  interest  and  self-preservation.  I  have  heard  it  asked, 
Why  should  a  man  be  punished  as  an  example  for  others  — 
why  should  he  be  sacrificed  to  the  good  of  society  ?  And  there- 
upon I  have  heard  the  querist  endeavour  to  satisfy  himself  by 
some  eternal  fitness  between  punishment  and  crime.  The  cul- 
prit deserved,  and  therefore  he  was  punished.  The  culprit  de- 
serves no  punishment  at  all,  unless  you  can  prove,  first,  that  he 
committed  the  crime ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  that  the  pun- 
ishment of  it  is  for  the  good  of  society.  It  is  precisely  this  very 
element  of  the  good  of  all  that  makes  the  punishment  a  right- 
eous punishment,  that  makes  it  deserved,  that  makes  it  justice, 


THINKER  AND  LOVER.  417 

and  not  mere  revenge.  The  man  punished  is  one  of  the  all. 
Would  he  renounce  this  solidarity?  (Page  381.) 

As  in  punishing  a  criminal  we  put  ourselves  between  the  past 
and  the  future,  punish  the  deed  done  to  secure  a  better  doing 
for  the  future,  so  we  must  desire  the  criminal  also  to  put  himself 
between  the  past  and  the  future,  to  reproach  himself  for  the 
deed  done,  and  at  the  same  moment  resolve  on  better  life  for  the 
future.  We  have  no  desire  that  he  should  inflict  misery  on  him- 
self ;  that  leads  to  no  good  result.  If  it  were  possible  for  him 
to  rest  wholly  in  his  remorse  for  the  past,  the  sentiment  would 
be  of  no  avail.  Penitence  that  leads  to  better  life  is  the  noblest 
of  sentiments  ;  but  it  is  noble  in  proportion  as  the  sad  penitent 
directs  his  steps  to  wiser  courses.  A  remorse  that  shuts  a  man 
up  for  self-torture  does  not  commend  itself  to  us.  "  You  have 
done  wrong ;  you  know  it  and  you  feel  it ;  go  now  and  do  right ; 
show  your  sorrow  in  your  better  life."  That  is  the  language  we 
expect  to  hear  from  the  lips  of  intelligent  men.  Remorse  that 
contemplates  any  other  expiation  than  the  better  life  for  the 
future  leads  to  superstitious  practices.  Again  and  again  has 
society  witnessed  this  spectacle :  men  and  women  have  had  re- 
morse, have  expiated  their  vices  by  some  self-torture,  some  ret- 
ributive punishment  self-inflicted,  and  gone  back  into  society 
ready  to  reproduce  the  same  vices.  There  is  no  expiation  for 
an  old  crime  but  a  new  virtue.  (Page  382.) 

With  maturer  intellect  he  comes  to  understand  how  individu- 
als grow  each  in  his  own  environment ;  he  becomes  more  toler- 
ant of  the  criminal,  less  tolerant  of  the  crime;  he  wants  to 
attack  this  last  in  every  way  imaginable  —  stifle  it,-  if  possible, 
in  its  birth.  Morality  takes  the  shape  of  a  great  desire  —  desire 
of  excellence  in  others  and  in  himself  —  desire  of  a  completed 
society  to  be  obtained  only  by  the  cooperation  of  each  member 
of  it.  For  such  is  the  nature  of  the  human  hive.  It  forms  the 
individual,  yet  itself  is  only  an  assemblage  of  individuals, 
each  leading  his  own  intelligent  and  passionate  existence.  Add, 
too,  that  such  desire  is  sustained  by  the  knowledge  that  it  is 
shared  with  other  minds  around  him,  who  will  esteem  and 
love  him  in  proportion  as  he  possesses  and  acts  upon  it ;  sus- 
tained also  by  the  knowledge  that  it  is  one  with  the  laws  of 
God. 


418  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

Surely,  to  believe  that  God  has  created  a  world  which  pro- 
gresses in  part  through  the  progressive  purposes  of  man  will  not 
check  the  growth  of  such  purposes.  (Page  383.) 

Our  thinker  is  as  he  is,  and  cannot  be  made  otherwise. 
If  he  urges  unrestingly  the  intellectual  probe,  plies  perpet- 
ually his  tools  of  analysis,  —  to  do  so  seems  a  necessity 
laid  upon  his  spirit.  And  beautiful  is  it  to  see  how  his 
separation  and  helplessness  amid  the  ordinary  world  of 
men  wakes  in  the  wife's  heart  a  special  tenderness,  like  a 
mother's  for  a  child.  She  has  told  us  that  a  successful 
and.  prosperous  man  could  scarcely  have  won  the  unre- 
served homage  of  her  nature,  but  she  gave  it  all  to  this 
lonely  thinker.  Her  admiration  for  him,  and  delight  in 
his  society,  blends  subtly  with  her  perception  of  his  utter 
need  of  her  care-taking.  His  incapacity  to  fit  himself  to 
the  actual  world  is  perfectly  illustrated  by  one  incident 
which  she  tells  to  his  honor  :  how,  while  poverty  seemed 
an  insuperable  barrier  to  the  union  for  which  they  both 
longed,  he  was  offered  employment  in  translation,  at  a 
compensation  of  three  hundred  and  sixty  pounds,  — 
wealth,  for  such  modest  wants  as  theirs.  But,  "  he  needed 
the  time  for  his  own  thinking,"  and  he  felt  u  a  certain  in- 
sincerity "  in  translating  an  author  whose  opinions  differed 
from  his  own  ;  so  there  is  no  sign  of  even  considering  the 
offer !  A  sort  of  celestial  child  this,  straying  quite  help- 
lessly among  the  paths  of  earth.  But  he  is  not  forgotten 
of  Heaven,  which  sends  him  for  his  guardian  angel  one 
who  shall  be  as  it  were  both  wife  and  mother.  A  divine 
impulse  it  is  which  urges  her  to  make  good  to  him  every 
lack.  He  starves  for  society  —  she  will  be  to  him  society  ! 
To  his  thoughts  the  world  does  not  greatly  care  to  listen 
—  her  ear  welcomes  every  whisper.  "  Thou  art  my  gold, 
thou  art  my  fame  ! "  —  those  words  are  her  passport  to 
the  woman's  heaven.  At  the  outset  she  does  indeed  at- 
tempt some  gentle  urgency  —  she  speaks  of  it  as  "  some 
conventional  prompting,"  but  surely  a  most  wifely  im- 


THINKER  AND  LOVER.  419 

pulse  it  was  —  to  draw  him  into  a  more  active  world. 
But  he  makes  characteristic  reply,  and  she  loyally  accepts 
thenceforth  his  mode  of  life,  not  only  as  his  necessity,  but 
as  fit  and  best.  Nay,  so  perfectly  does  her  nature  mould 
itself  to  his,  and  so  absolute  is  the  satisfaction  he  yields 
to  her,  —  as  if  heaven  had  decreed  that  to  her  soul  alone 
should  be  fully  opened  all  that  spiritual  beauty  in  him 
which  expressed  itself  to  others  only  in  bright  transient 
glimpses,  —  so  complete  is  this  union  of  two  in  one  that 
she  finds  their  dual  solitude  the  supremely  happy  condi- 
tion. "  The  gift  of  God,"  and  His  lovely  miracle  ! 

The  intensity  of  her  love  for  him  is  apparent  in  every 
word  she  utters,  but  its  nobility  is  appreciated  only  when 
we  see  how  sweetly  she  accepts  the  fact  that  his  deepest 
interest  is  fastened  on  the  unseen  realities.  There  is 
something  in  their  union  that  recalls  Milton's  line  :  — 

"  He  for  God  only,  she  for  God  in  him." 

To  be  in  that  sense  second  in  his  thoughts,  while  he  is 
first  in  hers,  breeds  no  dissatisfaction  in  her. 

The  quality  in  him  which  inspired  her  homage  is  illus- 
trated to  us  by  nothing  better  than  his  unvarying  tone  of 
sweetness  and  reverence  toward  that  world  of  humanity 
in  which  he  could  never  play  an  active  part.  Over-fine 
he  seems  for  this  world,  but  never  a  word  do  we  catch  of 
complaint  against  it  as  rough  or  harsh  or  coarse.  If  he 
finds  small  place  for  visible  usefulness,  he  takes  blame 
only  to  himself.  He  lives  in  a  surging  and  troubled 
time:  faiths  and  doubts,  nationalities  and  classes,  are 
clashing  and  jostling ;  on  that  sublime  strife  his  eyes  and 
heart  are  fixed.  His  voice  is  not  much  listened  to,  — 
what  matters  that  ?  To  see  that  the  movement  of  man- 
kind is  forward,  and  God-led  —  that  absorbs  him,  that  is 
enough  for  him. 

"  Well  roars  the  storm  to  them  that  hear 
A  deeper  voice  across  the  storm." 


420  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

Yet  we  can  see  that  even  in  his  estate  of  happiness  he 
feels  in  some  degree  the  shadowing  presence  of  life's  un- 
answered questions.  Her  letters  show  that  there  are  hours 
when  she  too  feels  the  shadow's  presence,  —  the  intense, 
the  even  painful  longing  for  a  clearer  knowledge  of  the 
truth.  We  recognize  that  her  transition,  under  her  hus- 
band's guidance,  from  old  beliefs  to  new  ones,  is  not  — 
certainly  in  its  immediate  results  —  an  entire  gain.  In 
the  creed  of  her  youth,  as  she  held  it,  the  elements  of 
cruelty  and  terror  were  practically  ignored,  or  received 
only  some  dim  theoretical  assent.  What  Christianity 
essentially  means,  to  such  natures  as  her  mother  and  her- 
self, is  an  unselfish  rule  of  life,  the  sense  of  a  fatherly 
care  ("  our  Father  knoweth  what  things  we  have  need 
of"),  and  the  soul's  absolute  safety  in  a  Divine  lover  and 
Saviour  —  the  "  Rock  of  Ages  cleft  for  me."  We  miss, 
in  the  ways  of  thought  into  which  she  followed  her  hus- 
band, the  nearness  and  tenderness  of  that  personal  trust. 
The  outlook  is  wider:  whatever  of  beneficent  destiny  is 
discerned  is  for  the  whole  of  mankind,  instead  of  a  frac- 
tion of  it;  "there  is  no  outside  to  our  Father's  house." 
But,  —  that  word  "  Father  "  no  longer  rises  spontaneous 
toward  the  supreme  Power.  It  is  revered,  studied,  obeyed, 
—  but  can  it  be  loved?  Is  there  longer  possible  that 
"  perfect  love  which  casteth  out  fear  ?  " 

Such  doubts,  we  see,  send  sometimes  a  deep  shiver  even 
through  the  peace  of  this  happy  pair.  Doubts  they  should 
be  called,  not  denials.  Nor  does  the  relinquishment  of 
the  old  creed  necessarily  involve  the  permanent  loss  of  that 
temper  which  accompanied  and  glorified  it.  The  filial 
spirit  in  man  toward  his  Creator  is  not  the  exclusive  pos- 
session of  any  theology.  How  much  that  is  filial  mani- 
fests itself  in  this  thinker  —  what  reverence,  obedience, 
submission  !  But  there  is  a  certain  glad  confidence,  a 
trust  which  is  joyful  where  submission  is  only  humble  — 
and  this  "  faith  "  is  at  the  heart  of  the  New  Testament, 


THINKER  AND  LOVER.  421 

breaking  out  there,  in  such  words  as  "  Beloved,  now  are 
we  the  sons  of  God  !  "  "  And  if  children,  then  heirs, 
heirs  of  God,  joint-heirs  with  Christ !  "  May  we  not  say 
that  such  faith  as  this  is  a  rightful  possession  of  humanity, 
which,  once  acquired  by  the  race,  may  be  sometimes  ob- 
scured, but  always  victoriously  reasserts  itself,  deepens, 
and  through  the  passing  chill  of  changing  thought  emerges 
at  last  into  warmer  radiance  ?  Is  it  not  this  faith  at  the 
heart  of  the  Christian  Church,  and  even  of  Catholicism, 
which  gives  a  vitality  that  no  errors  can  quench  ? 

And  of  this  pious  and  beautiful  thinker  may  we  not 
surmise  that  it  is  an  incompleteness  and  disproportion  of 
life  that  hinders  this  confident  gladness,  this  joyful  trust  ? 
Faith  is  nourished  and  exercised  by  Love  and  Action  ;  — 
love  he  has  found,  but  from  action  his  life-long  habit  still 
bars  him.  The  uplift  in  the  universe,  the  present  sustain- 
ing Divinity  in  man,  is  scarcely  felt  except  by  the  soul 
that  plies  its  energies  as  the  strong  swimmer  breasts  the 
waves.  Service,  hardihood,  valor  —  these  win  the  great 
prize.  "  The  Kingdom  of  Heaven  is  conquered  —  and  the 
stout-hearted  make  it  their  own !  " 

The  shadow  of  the  husband's  uncertainties  touches 
sometimes  the  wife  —  on  what  thoughtful  mind  does  not 
that  shadow  sometimes  fall?  But  she  is  wrapped  close 
and  warm  in  a  great  love,  a  great  happiness.  "  Love  is  of 
God  !  "  —  that  always  stands  a  rock  beneath  their  feet. 
For  the  present  need  it  suffices. 

It  is  perhaps  not  the  completed  and  systematic  treatise 
which  best  displays  the  personal  lineaments  of  the  author. 
These  we  seem  to  catch  more  truly,  more  distinctly,  in  the 
passing  thoughts  jotted  down  as  they  occur,  and  nearest 
resembling  the  spoken  word,  the  every-day  phrase  and  in- 
tonation. A  few  such  thoughts  —  taken  from  a  collection 
copied  by  his  wife  from  a  note-book  which  she  thinks  be- 
longs to  1863  or  1864  —  may  give  us  one  more  glimpse  of 
this  pure  and  delicate  spirit.  The  passages  are  headed 


422  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

Cornelius  Winter  loquitur.  (The  wife's  handwriting  is 
ordinarily  a  difficult  one  to  read,  but  all  of  this  note-book 
is  copied  with  the  clearness  of  copperplate.) 

POVERTY  IN  CITIES.  The  poor  ragged  woman,  at  night  in 
the  cold  damp  streets,  is  singing  the  same  sweet  air  I  heard  at 
the  Opera  —  singing  it  after  her  fashion.  She  begs  her  bread 
by  these  strains,  devoted  to  pleasure  and  love.  She  makes  the 
most  refined  of  melodies  the  wail  of  her  own  hunger  and  dis- 
tress. I  know  no  wail  of  distress  so  utterly  miserable  as  this. 

OPINION.  There  is  no  fetter  like  the  golden  opinion  of  soci- 
ety, no  restraint  more  wholesome.  Yet  he  who  would  be  a 
prophet  or  a  teacher  must  be  able  to  throw  this  gold,  like  other 
gold,  away. 

COURTIER  AND  VALET.  The  silent,  deferential  manner  of  a 
well-bred  servant,  valet,  or  butler,  in  the  establishment  of  a  no- 
bleman, is  much  the  same  thing  as  the  manner  of  the  nobleman 
himself  when  he  figures  as  a  courtier  in  the  palace.  Both  are 
proud  of  playing  their  part  well.  In  both  there  is  a  self-respect 
in  their  disciplined  humility.  In  both  the  deference  has  as 
much  of  pride  as  humility. 

ASCETICISM.  Asceticism  is  self  control  gone  mad.  The  mor- 
alist repudiates  the  lower  for  the  sake  of  the  higher.  The  as- 
cetic thinks  there  is  virtue  in  simple  repudiation.  Self-sacrifice 
is  properly  the  choice  of  the  highest,  accompanied  necessarily  by 
a  sacrifice  of  the  lower.  The  ascetic  separates  what  should  be 
one  act  of  choice,  and  finds  a  virtue  in  the  self-renunciation 
alone. 

CONTENT.  O  children  of  men,  —  he  would  say,  —  is  there 
not  a  heaven  of  beauty,  by  day  and  night,  arched  over  you ! 
Can  you  not  read  herein  the  presence  of  your  God  ?  How  know 
you  that  in  other  regions  his  presence  is  otherwise  made 
known  ?  He  is  visible  always  in  his  works  —  can  He  be  visible 
in  any  other  way  ?  Aspire  !  But  you  will  aspire  only  to  other 
skies.  Aspire,  but  be  happy  under  these,  or  under  what  other 
skies  are  you  sure  of  happiness  ?  "  The  kingdom  of  heaven  is 
within  you."  You  live  always  in  the  Infinite  as  well  as  in  the 
Finite. 

SNOWDON.     You  see  the  mountain,  from  the  necessity  of  the 


THINKER  AND  LOVER.  423 

case,  must  separate  himself  a  little  from  the  rest  of  the  earth. 
Our  Snowdon  as  he  rises  gets  his  shoulder  out  of  the  crowd. 

MORAL  RULES.  Here  is  an  instance  of  their  growth,  though 
on  a  limited  subject.  In  England  it  is  a  rule  of  commercial 
morality  that  the  tradesman  should  have  one  price  for  all  cus- 
tomers. No  such  rule  is  established  in  an  Eastern  bazaar. 
Each  transaction  is  a  separate  bargain ;  the  morality  of  the 
market  sanctions  the  best  price  that  can  be  got;  and  the 
stranger  must  suffer  from  his  ignorance. 

THE  CULTUS.  You  may  read  in  Prescott's  History  how  the 
ancient  Mexicans  used  to  congregate  in  a  public  square,  decked 
out  in  all  their  feathers,  to  greet  the  sun  at  his  rising.  They 
shouted  as  he  rose.  I  prefer  to  open  my  casement  silently,  and 
to  look  out  alone. 

HYPOCRISY.  On  the  greatest  subjects  on  which  human  be- 
ings can  think,  there  ought  not  to  be  an  habitual  systematic 
hypocrisy.  Nor  is  there  amongst  the  multitude.  But  in  our 
educated  classes  there  is.  But  this  is  not  to  be  wondered  at. 
A  free-thinker  who  does  not  see  an  absolute  gain  to  society  by 
the  substitution  of  his  own  faith  or  opinion  for  the  popular  faith 
can  have  no  motive  for  sincerity.  There  will  be  this  hypocrisy 
till  the  moment  comes  when  a  new  and  simpler  faith  brings  in 
some  new  enthusiasm  on  the  side  of  virtue. 

TERROR.  How  have  we  been  tortured  into  goodness.  What 
a  tragedy  has  here  purified  us  by  tears  ! 

PROGRESS.  I  no  more  wish  you  to  be  eternally  occupied  with 
progress  than  forever  occupied  with  your  immortal  state.  Live 
your  best  —  do  your  best  —  progress  and  immortality  will  take 
care  of  themselves. 

INDUSTRY.  During  the  French  Revolution  a  mob  of  men 
had  somehow  persuaded  themselves  that  food  and  clothing  were 
to  be  got  out  of  Liberty  and  Fraternity.  Liberty  and  Frater- 
nity may  be  excellent  things,  but  they  will  not  do  the  work  of 
Industry.  Food  and  clothing  are  not  to  be  got  out  of  political 
enthusiasm,  however  exalted. 

HEREDITARY  SIN.  I  have  read  a  statistical  account  which 
shows  that  two  thirds  of  our  criminal  population  were  born  of 
parents  who  themselves  were  more  or  less  criminal  —  belonged 
to  the  race  of  vagabonds  and  thieves.  Apply  your  doctrine  of 


424  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

compensation  here !  Who  could  demand  it  better  than  these 
criminals?  The  very  ill  temper,  the  hateful  passion  which 
made  them  criminals,  are  part  and  parcel  of  their  miserable  lot. 

NOBLESSE  OBLIGE.  They  who  see  must  get  out  of  the  way 
of  the  blind.  The  blind  cannot  take  care  of  them. 

EPITAPH  —  engraved  under  the  image  of  a  lute  :  — 
Placet,  Tacet,  Jacet. 

It  speaks,  however,  of  regret  only  and  the  past.  At  the  boun- 
dary between  this  world  and  the  next,  two  conflicting  streams  of 
sentiment  meet;  combine  they  do  not,  but  they  possess  the 
mind  in  turn.  Our  friend  is  dead  —  our  friend  is  living ;  he  is 
lost  —  he  has  but  gone  before ;  we  weep,  we  rejoice ;  we  believe 
at  the  same  time  in  death  and  immortality. 

Two  PRAYERS.  The  weak  in  their  despair  at  the  injustice  of 
the  strong  called  upon  the  gods  to  help  them.  And  the  gods 
heard  their  prayer.  They  sent  a  fear  upon  all  human  hearts, 
and  one  that  crushed  the  wicked  in  his  pride  of  strength. 

The  time  has  come  when  the  violence  of  wicked  men  is  sub- 
dued and  strength  lies  with  the  many  and  peaceful.  Mean- 
while this  fear  haunts  the  gentle  and  the  meek.  They  pray  to 
the  gods  to  relieve  them  from  it. 

And  this  prayer  also  the  gods  I  think  will  hear. 

DOUBT.  Doubt  is  distressing,  I  admit.  One  says,  Revelation 
has  removed  the  distress.  It  has  increased  it.  Still  more  dis- 
tracting doubts  arise  about  this  revelation.  But  even  augmented 
thus,  better  the  doubt  and  the  free  career  of  reason,  than  a 
truth  and  a  command  subjecting  the  reason. 

THE  YOUNG  LEAF.  Our  fruit-trees  generally  send  forth  their 
blossoms  first,  before  the  leaf,  apparently  that  these  may  have  the 
full  benefit  of  the  sun.  An  apple  orchard  is  one  cloud  of  pink 
and  white  blossoms  —  a  dazzling  picture.  But  I  like  better  the 
more  ordinary  procedure  when  the  young  leaf  comes  out  alone 
upon  the  bough,  and  in  its  uncertain  tint  of  gold  or  green  itself 
seems  half  blossom  and  half  leaf.  And  see,  when  you  approach 
and  look  closer  into  it,  how  the  young  leaf  rests  partly  coiled  up 
in  some  sheath  —  like  the  young  of  living  creatures,  gathering  I 
know  not  what  of  tenderness  out  of  its  very  imperfection.  It 
was  fortunate  for  him  that  the  gentle  Brahmin  who  first  made 
it  religion  not  to  destroy  an  insect  did  not  carry  his  amiable 


THINKER  AND  LOVER.  425 

disposition  one  step  further  and  feel  that  he  could  not  hurt  the 
young  budding  leaf.  I  feel  myself  something  of  the  same  re- 
luctance to  crush  a  bud  as  to  kill  an  insect. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

She  came  —  she  went  —  a  fleeting  guest, 

And  trackless  in  our  busy  land. 
Whither  ?  and  whence  ?     From  rest  to  rest, 

Out  of  God's  hand  —into  God's  hand. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

PARTING. 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

IN  the  early  autumn  of  1870  my  husband  was  for  a 
time  less  uniformly  well  than  usual  —  teased  with  nettle- 
rash,  less  up  to  long  walks.  Yet  there  seemed  nothing  to 
alarm  —  though  I  remember  his  saying  one  day  when  we 
were  talking  over  our  Swiss  rambles  of  five  years  before, 
"  I  could  not  do  those  things  now.  La  Sante  is  going 
down."  And  then  in  his  tender  pity  he  instantly  added, 
"  Let  us  hope  only  very  gradually."  I  cannot  retrace  the 
slow  and  stealthy  course  of  his  illness.  /  cannot  —  I  did 
so  more  than  a  year  ago,  and  that  account,  with  a  few 
additions,  shall  be  repeated  here. 

[In  October  her  husband  had  one  night  a  shivering  fit, 
which  was  followed  in  the  succeeding  months  by  several 
others.  They  were  at  first  attributed  to  the  flooded  con- 
dition of  the  meadows ;  but  when  they  recurred  during  a 
stay  at  Aberdovey  and  then  at  Brighton,  they  caused 
some  alarm.] 

I  may  mention  that  the  tenth  anniversary  of  our  mar- 
riage (the  5th  of  March,  1871)  found  us  at  Brighton.  I 
had  been  spending  three  or  four  days  with  a  dear  friend 
in  London,  but  returned  on  the  Saturday,  in  spite  of  a 
great  possible  treat  on  the  Sunday  (luncheon  with  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Lewes),  because  that  Sunday  was  our  dear  an- 
niversary, and  I  could  not  have  borne  it  to  find  us  sepa- 
rated. This  time  its  return  made  us  low.  Ten  years! 
There  was  something  solemn  about  the  closing  of  that 


PARTING.  427 

term.  My  own  depression  during  several  of  those  March 
days  was  quite  unusual,  and  I  remember  his  saying  to  me, 
"  Ten  years !  I  used  to  think  if  I  could  have  ten  happy 
years !  And  I  have  had  them."  And  in  the  January  of 
1871  he  had  put  in  my  pocket-book,  where  he  always  wrote 
my  name,  "  One  happy  decade  over  —  will  another,  will 
half  of  another,  be  granted?"  Till  then  these  inscrip- 
tions had  been  so  joyous. 

To  Miss  Mary   Wrench. 

BRIGHTON,  April  11,  1871. 

.  .  .  The s  are  close  to  us,  but  1  shall  not  attempt 

to  see  much  of  them.  I  know  what  the  young  who  are 
in  society  think  of  an  ill-dressed  relative  of  the  name  of 
Smith.  I  remember  my  own  youth,  and  while  I  blush  in 
my  soul  at  some  of  its  wants  of  moral  courage  and  shrink- 
ing from  incongruity,  I  at  least  draw  a  lesson  from  it. 
They  may  look  in  some  afternoon,  and  I  shall  call  there 
in  the  evening,  and  have  a  pleasant  chat  I  dare  say.  .  .  . 
We  go  this  evening  to  Clara's.  Oh  dear,  how  glad  T  was 
I  did  not  go  with  the  party  to  sit  on  end  in  the  Stand. 
Your  uncle  William  and  I  saw  everything  so  charmingly 
—  vilely  dressed,  both  of  us,  and  not  knowing  a  soul,  we 
were  like  two  creatures  out  of  the  body,  and  entirely  given 
up  to  impressions  from  without.  We  were  on  our  legs 
four  good  hours,  and  much  amused.  Prince  Arthur  has  a 
very  nice  face.  I  had  my  little  glass,  and  I  inspected  him 
leisurely,  just  as  your  granny  would  have  done.  In 
youth,  how  many  enjoyments  I  can  recall  spoilt  by  reflex 
action,  so  to  speak  —  self  coming  in  —  either  that  one 
was  dissatisfied  with  one's  appearance,  or  something. 
We  two  see  things  now  very  comfortably. 

BRIGHTON,  April  17,  1871. 

.  .  .'1  've  no  doubt  M.  is  radiantly  happy,  and  there  is 
something  very  sweet  and  maidenly  and  unegotistical  in 


428  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

not  dwelling  upon  it  —  but  I  know  I  am  a  dweller  my- 
self !  However,  I  can  admire  other  types  fully.  I  really 
cannot  tell  you  what  Constance  R.  is,  and  how  gloriously 
Polly  R  sings.  Their  collie  dog  Laddie,  black  and  tan 
with  just  a  white  shirt  frill,  human  eyes,  and  manner  of 
high  distinction,  is  equally  inexpressible.  .  .  .  This  evening 
William  goes  in  there  with  me  —  how  I  hope  he  will  un- 
derstand my  enthusiasm.  .  .  .  Of  course  we  are  all  bet- 
tering or  worsening,  and  I  can  understand  dear  Mrs. 

is  not  in  the  happiest  phase  just  now.  Trying  to  get  too 
much  out  of  an  income  is  destructive  to  character. 

BRIGHTON,  May  5,  1871. 

...  A  fortnight  ago  I  was  walking  back  from  Clara's 
when  I  passed  a  blind  man.  Now  there  are  such  numbers 
of  them  here  one's  heart  gets  hardened,  and  I  never  like 
to  have  money  about  me  lest  I  should  be  betrayed  into 
the  very  great  sin  —  for  so  I  believe  it  to  be  —  of  giving 
it  to  tramps  or  otherwise  frittering  it  away.  But  there 
was  a  dejection  about  this  blind  man's  attitude  that  sent 
a  thrill  through  one,  and  I  looked  back,  and  then  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  going  to  speak  to  him.  He  was  a 
navvy  who  had  lost  his  sight  a  year  and  a  half  ago  when 

working  for  a  Mr. ,  a  great  London  contractor,  in  one 

of  the  great  drains.     He  was  very  straightforward  in  his 

tale,  and  seemed  to  think  that  if  only  Mr. could  be 

got  at,   and  he  be  interceded  for,  something  would  be 

done  for  him.     Mr. had  been  staying  in  Brighton, 

but  was  gone.     Well  this  was  on  a  Friday ;  on  Saturday 

I  got  Mr. 's  London  address  from  a  house  agent,  and 

on  Monday  went  off  to  the  poor  man,  but  could  not  find 
him  —  looked  for  him  three  times  in  vain.  A  week  later 
I  was  driving  with  Clara  when  I  discerned  him  in  quite 
another  part  of  the  town.  He  wished  me  to  write  for  him 

to  Mr. ,  and  I  did  so.     I  had  several  talks  with  him, 

and  got  to  know  his  history,  and  all  about  the  clothes  in 


PARTING.  429 

pawn,  and  what  he  wanted.  He  is  a  stalwart  man  of 
forty-seven ;  a  hard-working,  well-paid,  independent,  well- 
off,  active  man,  a  year  and  a  half  ago  ;  now  a  poor  waif 
and  stray,  shivering  in  the  cold  sea  air,  moved  on  from 
pillar  to  post  by  the  police,  with  a  placard  on  his  broad 
chest  setting  forth  his  case,  utterly  lonely  in  the  great 
crowd,  with  no  one  to  care  for  him,  obliged  to  shelter  in  a 
low  lodging-house,  with  nothing  to  look  to  but  a  gradual 
wasting  away  and  deepening  misery  here  below.  Poor 
dear  John  Matthews !  He  is  a  Devonshire  man,  and  I  am 
sure  a  truthful  as  well  as  a  more  than  ordinarily  intelli- 
gent one.  Yesterday  Mr. 's  answer  came,  and  alas, 

he  considers  that  he  has  done  enough.  He  gave  some- 
thing in  the  winter,  and  it  was  owing  to  his  insistency  that 
he  got  a  twelve  shillings  a  week  allowance  for  weeks  and 
weeks,  then  six  shillings.  John  M.  has  been  in  hospital 
after  hospital,  under  all  manner  of  doctors,  trying  all 
manner  of  treatment  —  the  result,  perfect  blindness ! 
You  may  imagine  how  it  went  to  my  heart  to  read  him 
the  cold,  stern  denial.  In  his  darkness,  help  from  Mr. 

appeared  to  have  become  a  fixed  idea  with  him  — 

that,  and  to  go  to  his  own  parish.  At  first  he  bore  up 
manfully  —  tried  to  put  it  away  —  but  the  disappointment 
was  too  great,  and  the  once  strong  frame  heaved,  and  the 
sightless  eyes  overflowed,  and  he  broke  down  utterly,  and 
oh,  my  child !  if  you  had  heard  his  exceeding  bitter  cry, 
"  My  punishment  is  greater  than  I  can  bear,"  you  would 
have  felt  your  heart  torn  as  mine  was.  I  could  have  taken 
him  in  my  arms,  but  for  the  people.  That 's  so  wretched 
—  I  do  go  when  everybody  is  at  luncheon,  but  there  are 
always  children  or  somebody  about.  All  his  anguish  made 
its  way,  and  oh,  the  unspeakable  pathos  of  it !  Well  — 
William  says  he  shall  have  a  sovereign  (so  kind  of  him, 
when  he  has  not  seen  the  man)  —  and  I  am  much  mis- 
taken if  Clara  does  not  send  another  —  and  I  Ve  got  half 
a  crown  from  Miss (I  declare  I  did  it  more  for  her 


430  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

sake  than  his),  and  we  shall  get  his  poor,  good  clothes  (the 
evidence  of  his  past  honourable  because  hard-working  pros- 
perity) out  of  pawn,  and  he  shall  go  off  to  his  Devonshire 
parish  —  to  the  workhouse,  alas  !  —  but  he  thinks  they  '11 
give  him  out-door  relief,  and  perhaps  he  can  board  with 
one  of  his  brothers  —  anyhow  he  wishes  this.  To-day  I 
must  go  and  see  him  —  I  think  he  's  got  to  feel  me  a  friend 
—  and  to-morrow  I  shall  hear  from  Clara,  and  something 
final  will  be  done.  My  own  is  gone  to-day  to  the  Acad- 
emy, and  wanted  me  to  go  with  him.  But  I  had  had  my 
treat  at  the  Old  Masters,  and  I  could  not.  I  would 
rather  give  that  poor  fellow  an  hour's  glow  at  the  heart  — 
if  indeed  such  a  blessing  could  be  granted  me  —  than  see 
all  the  pictures  that  were  ever  painted.1  How  glad  I  shall 
be  to  have  my  owTiest  back  again!  Now  you  and  my 
darling  Edith  are  not  for  a  moment  to  fancy  I  want  a 
penny  for  the  poor  fellow.  I  only  mention  it  because  it 
has  been  uppermost  in  my  mind.  I  only  wish  I  had  seen 
him  before  I  rigged  myself  out.  It  may  be  satisfactory 
to  you  to  know  I  have  spent  ten  pounds  upon  my  gar- 
ments, and  feel  rather  remarkably  well  dressed ! 

[In  May  they  went  to  Ilkley  in  Yorkshire,  to  try  the 
effect  of  a  more  bracing  climate.] 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

He  seemed  well,  but  not  peculiarly  well  there.  Never 
shall  I  forget  one  misty,  gray  evening  when  we  stood 
watching  the  sun  set  behind  the  low  hills,  and  he,  his  dear 
eyes  fixed  wistfully  on  the  west,  said,  as  though  thinking 
aloud,  "The  summers  will  be  few."  I  think,  however, 
this  was  less  the  language  of  definite  apprehension  than  of 
that  vague  yearning  melancholy  we  all  know.  When  the 
die  was  cast,  the  charm  of  the  moors  began  a  little  to  gain 
upon  us ;  but  we  could  not  have  secured  a  house  to  his 

1  Her  friendly  help  accomplished  more  than  she  hoped  ;  in  a  hos- 
pital the  man's  sight  was  partially  restored. 


PARTING.  431 

taste,  and  he  was  even  more  pleased  than  I  to  find  himself 
again  in  the  old  home  at  Newton  Place,  the  favourite 
study.  Eleven  days  of  intense  enjoyment  succeeded.  He 
at  once  sat  down  to  the  little  desk  in  the  old  corner,  and 
rapidly  wrote  the  last  article  of  his  that  ever  appeared  in 
"  Blackwood's  Magazine  "  —  one  on  the  "  Coming  Race." 
I  remember  his  saying  one  day  as  he  laid  down  the  book, 
"  I  should  not  wonder  if  it  was  written  by  Bulwer."  I 
occupied  myself  meanwhile  with  giving  to  the  little  room 
where  I  sat  during  his  busy  morning  hours  more  of  a 
home  look  than  heretofore  (indeed,  we  planned  making 
Newton  Place  more  of  a  permanent  home,  and  collecting 
there  all  our  small  and  scattered  possessions),  and  so  I 
sent  for  books  long  left  in  Edinburgh,  for  William's  bust, 
etc.  We  had  blissful  walks  to  see  all  his  favourite  haunts 
in  their  fresh  beauty ;  we  were  never  more  gayly,  light- 
heartedly  happy.  On  the  evening  of  the  5th  of  June,  I 
walked  into  Keswick,  and  on  the  way  back  I  met  him.  He 
was  coming  along  so  very  quickly,  looked  so  boyish,  I 
may  say,  in  figure  and  tread,  I  could  hardly  believe  at  a 
distance  it  was  he ;  but  soon  I  saw  the  white  teeth  shine 
out  —  saw  the  radiant  smile  that  always  greeted  me,  and 
never  more  fully  realized  the  old  ever-new  joy  of  putting 
my  arm  through  his,  and  hearing  and  telling  all  that  an 
interval  of  three  hours  (a  long  interval  to  my  conscious- 
ness) had  brought  to  each.  He  had  had  a  visit  from  his 
friend  Dr.  Lietch.  "  Did  Dr.  Lietch  think  him  looking 
well  ?  "  "  Yes  ;  he  had  noticed  that  he  seemed  in  very 
good  health."  That  verdict  was  another  delight.  There 
was  nothing  to  disquiet  me  that  summer  evening !  In  the 
night  a  very  protracted  shivering-fit  came  on.  The  fol- 
lowing day  he  was  really  ill.  And  now  began  a  period  of 
restless  wretchedness,  upon  which  I  hardly  know  how  to 
dwell  —  restless  wretchedness  of  my  own  only  ;  for  while 
fever-fit  followed  fever-fit,  and  began  visibly  to  sap  his 
strength,  he  never  admitted  that  there  was  any  necessity 


432  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

for  alarm,  and  strenuously  resisted  advice  or  change  of 
place. 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

NEWTON  PLACE,  June  27,  1871. 

...  I  say  to  myself,  "  What  am  1  that  I  should  not 
suffer  ? "  I  think  of  the  suffering  of  others  —  try  to 
think  of  it  —  and  the  good  I  have  received  at  the  hand  it 
may  be  decrees  me  sorrow.  Oh,  I  pray  to  bear  well,  that 
he  may  not  be  saddened.  It  is  easy  to  be  loving  and 
kindly  when  we  are  happy.  Sorrow  isolates  —  draws  an 
icy  shroud  about  our  hearts  —  and  it  is  hard  to  love  any- 
thing but  the  one  who  suffers.  I  can  but  cry  —  "I  have 
no  language  but  a  cry "  —  for  patience  and  meekness. 
But  I  do  see  just  a  something  to-day  that  makes  tears 
come  easier  to  me,  and  anguish  less  bitter.  He  has  no 
pain  —  that  is  a  blessing.  He  says  "  we  shall  smile  again," 
in  his  own  dear  way. 

(July  5.)  He  looks  so  sorry  for  me  —  looks  at  me,  and 
says  to  the  old  and  faded  woman,  "  Sweet,  sweet  Lucy  !  " 
He  is  fading  away  from  before  me. 

[A  change  of  place  was  thought  desirable  for  the  inva- 
lid, by  his  wife  and  Dr.  Lietch,  and  with  Mr.  Constable's 
help  the  arrangements  had  been  made  for  a  removal.] 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

NEWTON  PLACE,  July  27,  1871. 

Yesterday  when  I  came  down  to  breakfast,  he  reported 
himself  much  better,  and  I  saw  that  irresolution  about  a 
move  was  setting  in  !  I  will  not  enlarge  upon  it,  but  it  was 
a  dreadful  trial.  .  .  .  My  dear  one  went  off  by  the  omni- 
bus for  a  drive,  and  oh,  how  I  wrestled  with  the  irritation 
as  well  as  the  anguish  of  his  resolve  to  stay  on  here  —  so 
as  to  go  and  meet  him  with  a  smile.  For  after  all,  as  that 
great  writer  says,  "  Love  is  of  no  value,  without  a  larger 
power  of  living  in  the  experience  of  others."  And  his 
point  of  view  is  not  unreasonable.  He  thinks  less  of 


PARTING.  433 

change  of  air  than  I  do,  and  more  values  the  comforts  this 
house  gives  him  —  the  freedom,  the  quiet,  the  nice  cook- 
ing, the  punctuality.  Oh,  my  chick,  it  is  hard  to  get  rid 
of  self !  It  is  /  who  suffer  by  remaining,  but  perhaps 
there  are  advantages  for  him.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  will 
not  struggle  any  more.  I  feel  to-day  quite  quiet  —  per- 
haps through  exhaustion  from  fruitless  efforts,  but  also 
I  think  from  something  of  a  well-grounded  hope  that  he 
may  recover  here.  .  .  .  He  is  so  all  in  all  to  me,  and  not 
only  my  happiness,  but  my  shelter  and  my  moral  support. 
What  dearest  Mrs.  Jones  says  in  her  last  letter  of  Mrs. 

is  so  true  :  4%  The  want  of  the  large  mans  mind  in 

the  house  is  so  felt ;  subjects  of  irritation  that  he  would 
never  have  allowed  grow  so  prominent."  With  him  to 
sustain  me  by  his  wiser,  better,  higher  nature,  I  cannot 
degrade,  as  without  him  I  feel  I  might.  I  dare  not  con- 
template the  awful  desolation. 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

At  the  end  of  September  came  two  shivering-fits,  but 
they  were  not  succeeded  by  illness,  and  October  passed 
over  us,  bringing,  as  it  seemed,  still  further  amendment. 
His  mental  energy  was  unimpaired,  his  power  of  writing,1 

1  It  was  during  this  happy  respite  that  William  wrote  his  last 
article  —  on  Mr.  Greg's  Political  Essays.  Originally  intended  for 
the  Magazine,  with  the  views  of  which,  however,  it  was  not  found 
quite  in  accord  —  it  appeared  in  the  Contemporary  of  June,  1872. 
I  give  its  closing  paragraphs,  —  a  fitting  last  utterance  for  one  al- 
ways so  reverent  of  labor,  and  so  interested  in  the  progress  of  the 
labouring  classes  :  — 

"  No  one  doubts,  we  presume,  that,  in  spite  of  fluctuating  or  oscil- 
lating movements,  or  long- stationary  periods,  there  is  observable 
through  the  past  ages  a  progress  of  humanity.  And  since  this  prog- 
ress, speaking  broadly,  is  one  with  the  enlarged  scope  and  increased 
activity  of  the  human  mind,  and  especially  with  that  activity  which 
increases  actual  knowledge  of  nature  and  ourselves,  and  since  this 
mental  activity  cannot  be  expected  to  come  suddenly  to  an  end, 
since  the  increase  of  knowledge,  especially  of  external  nature,  seems 


434  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

his  spirits,  had  entirely  returned ;  the  most  marked  differ- 
ence was  that  he  did  not  run  up-stairs  two  steps  at  a  time, 
as  till  this  summer  he  had  invariably  done. 

at  this  hour  to  be  advancing  with  accelerated  speed,  we  may  surely 
predict  that  there  is  yet  a  course  of  progressive  development  lying 
before  us.  Of  what  precise  nature,  it  would  be  indeed  hazardous  to 
predict.  The  knowledge  yet  to  be  acquired,  the  additional  inven- 
tions and  expedients  of  a  future  age,  its  modified  passions,  its  new 
sentiments,  cannot  be  known  to  us  now.  But  we  know  that  scientific 
knowledge,  as  a  general  rule,  leads  to  improvements  in  industrial  art, 
and  thus  multiplies  those  products  which  render  life  agreeable  and 
civilized.  A  larger  number  enjoying  all  those  advantages  of  temper- 
ate pleasure  and  healthful  occupation,  of  amenity  of  manners  and 
culture  of  mind,  which  only  a  minority  enjoys  at  present  —  this  alone 
would  be  an  immense  progress,  and  this  we  may  venture  to  proph- 
esy. 

"  It  is  as  if  the  student  of  botany  and  vegetable  physiology  had 
the  growth  of  a  plant  exhibited  before  him  up  to  a  certain  point,  and 
had  to  predict  how  it  would  grow  on.  Something  he  has  gathered  of 
the  laws  of  vegetable  growth,  and  he  doubts  not  that  it  will  grow 
higher  and  put  forth  fresh  leaves  like  those  which  it  has  already  pro- 
duced. But  let  us  say  this  plant  has  not  yet  blossomed,  how  is  he  to 
foretell  what  the  blossom  will  be,  or  what  the  fruit  will  be  ?  The 
student  of  humanity  is  in  some  such  position.  He  has  half  the  growth 
before  him  ;  how  is  he  to  predict  the  other  half  ?  Precisely  he  can- 
not. But  he,  too,  knows  something  of  the  laws  or  method  of  human 
growth.  Like  the  botanist  he  can  say  of  this  plant  that  it  will  grow 
higher,  and  expand  its  branches,  and  multiply  its  leaves.  What  if 
there  is  a  blossom  and  fruitage  yet  to  come  ?  Of  that  he  can  say 
nothing.  An  evolution  still  in  the  future  cannot  enter  into  science, 
since  it  does  not  enter  into  knowledge  at  all. 

"  Even  this  superficial  and  rapid  survey  of  what  may  be  acquired 
by  studying  man  in  history  may  indicate  how  such  acquisitions  may  aid, 
or  guide,  or  console  us,  when  we  are  involved  in  certain  of  our  social 
and  political  problems.  We  find  the  artisan  and  the  labourer  urging 
their  claim  to  be  admitted  within  the  inner  circle  of  civilized  life.  They 
urge  it  rudely,  perhaps  prematurely  ;  they  occasion  alarm  and  con- 
sternation by  their  clamour  and  their  threats.  Nevertheless  that  they 
do  urge  their  claim  is  a  good  augury.  It  is  the  right  desire,  and  in- 
dicates that  some  step  has  been  already  made  towards  its  fulfilment. 
And  that  general  progress  of  society  in  art  and  knowledge,  on  which 
we  can  most  securely  calculate,  is  of  such  a  nature  as  to  guarantee 


PARTING.  436 

Early  in  November  William  caught  cold.  It  did  not 
threaten  to  be  even  a  severe  cold ;  but  just  when  I  was 
rejoicing  over  its  passing  away,  on  the  night  of  the  ninth 
a  terrible  shivering-fit  came  on.  From  this  time  his  illness 
—  I  can  see  now  —  steadily  advanced.  But  while  what  is 
the  irrevocable  past  was  still  the  fluctuating  present,  there 
were  gleams  of  hope.  Oh,  how  many  hopes  I  was  called 
upon  to  surrender !  He  now  began  to  lay  more  stress 
upon  this  persistent  fever  than  he  had  ever  before  con- 
sented to  do,  and  to  notice  the  decline  of  his  strength. 
He  consented  to  leave  Borrowdale  for  Brighton  on  the 
first  of  December ;  sea-air  we  thought  might  be  of  use, 
and  there  further  advice  was  to  be  had.  .  .  .  However, 
since  change  of  place  -did  not  work  improvement,  he  <}id 
consent  to  see  a  medical  friend,  —  one  who  knew  his  con- 
stitution, and  took  the  kindliest  interest  in  his  case.  Here 
was  the  rising  of  another  hope !  Tonics,  opiates  —  these 
he  had  made  no  trial  of  —  perhaps  his  system  would  re- 
spond to  these  !  The  year  ended  with  just  a  ray  of  light ; 
yet  it  was  some  time  about  its  close  that  he  one  day  said 
suddenly  to  me :  "  Oh,  Lucy,  we  will  go  off  together  to 
the  country,  have  done  with  medicines  and  doctors,  and 
there  we  will  calmly  and  quietly  await  the  inevitable  end, 
and  we  will  love  each  other  to  the  last."  (I  wonder  now 
how  I  bore  the  agonizing  terror  of  those  days,  as  I  should 
have  wondered  then  how  days  of  solitude  and  vain  yearn- 
ing such  at  these  could  be  borne !)  And  in  my  pocket- 
book  for  1872,  his  last  entry  of  my  name  is  accompanied 
by  these  ominous  words  :  "  The  new  year  has  less  of  hope, 

its  future  fulfilment.  The  movement  is  one  not  to  be  absolutely  and 
resolutely  opposed,  but  the  stateman's  task  is  to  moderate,  guide,  and 
render  it  safe.  Task  hard  enough,  it  must  be  admitted.  Much  tur- 
moil and  many  terrors  will  probably  attend  the  movement.  But  if 
ultimately  what  is  most  refined  and  enjoyable  in  human  life  should 
be  participated  in  by  the  -  hand-worker  as  well  as  the  head- worker, 
this  would  not  only  be  the  extension  of  culture  and  happiness,  but  it 
would  put  our  civilization  on  a  broader  and  safer  basis." 


436  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

but  more  of  love  and  gratitude,  than  any  of  its  predeces- 
sors." 

[Little  by  little  he  grew  worse.]  But  those  anxious 
nights  were  not  all  unhappy ;  he  used  to  be  not  merely 
cheerful,  but  playful,  during  those  sleepless  hours.  Noth- 
ing provoked  a  gesture  or  tone  of  impatience,  still  less  a 
complaint ;  but  it  was  always  the  alleviations  on  which  he 
dwelt :  how  comfortable  the  bed,  the  room,  the  firelight ! 
how  delicious  the  beaten-up  egg  and  sherry  ;  how  pleasant 
to  have  the  candle  lit  and  placed  beside  him  ;  how  pleas- 
ant to  be  warmly  wrapped  up,  and  to  have  book  or  news- 
paper given  him  to  read  for  an  hour  or  so !  It  was  about 
th?  middle  of  January  that  he  began  to  find  the  walks  he 
ha$l  persistently  taken  "  do  him  more  harm  than  good," 
tire  him  overmuch,  and  he  now  gladly  consented  to  the 
drives  his  dear  niece  Clara  was  only  too  happy  to  offer 
him.  In  the  days  of  health  he  preferred  his  own  light, 
rapid  walking  to  the  most  luxurious  of  carriages  ;  now 
the  daily  drive  with  the  sweet,  affectionate  companion  — 
tender  to  him  as  a  daughter,  with  whom  he  had  all  the 
ease  of  a  father,  could  speak  or  be  silent  at  will  —  this 
became  the  greatest  refreshment  and  pleasure.  Oh,  I 
thankfully  record  everything  that  made  his  last  illness 
easier  to  him!  In  our  happy  days  we  had  all,  and 
abounded ;  now,  when  we  might  for  the  first  time  have 
discovered  that  we  were  poor,  loving  hearts  made  their 
wealth  minister  to  his  comfort.  How  he  used  to  watch 
for  "  the  dear  gray  horses !  "  In  this  way  he  got  the 
fresh  air,  and  saw  the  sea  and  the  clouds.  And  when  he 
came  in,  and  had  taken  his  luncheon,  there  was  always  an 
interval  of  comparative  strength,  and  a  short  walk  could 
still  be  enjoyed.  ...  I  besought  him  to  try  at  least  what 
homoeopathy  might  avail  in  a  case  evidently  not  calculated 
for  other  treatment  —  Dr.  Allen,  the  kind  friend  who  had 
hitherto  attended  him,  gladly  consenting.  He,  it  appeared, 
had  had  no  hope  from  the  first.  In  his  opinion  the  lungs 


PARTING.  437 

were  obscurely  affected.  Dr.  Hilbers,  the  homoeopathic 
physician,  thought  the  defective  action  of  the  heart  was 
the  chief  danger.  One  thing  was  certain  —  I  see  it  now 
—  daily  he  wasted.  The  afternoons  were  the  best  part 
of  the  day  —  the  afternoons  and  the  evenings.  And  dur- 
ing these  he  had  frequently  visits  from  congenial  friends. 
One  was  a  Mr.  Carpenter,  a  remarkable  man,  philosopher 
and  philanthropist,  —  a  man  of  most  active  benevolence 
and  most  fervent  piety  (not  of  the  dogmatic  kind),  who 
had  valued  my  husband's  works  before  he  came  to  know 
and  still  more  highly  value  him.  Mr.  Carpenter's  visits 
were  always  a  pleasure ;  and  the  two  would  discuss  poli- 
tics and  general  questions  with  quite  eager  earnest.  One 
day  in  February,  Professor  Maurice,  an  early  friend  of 
William's,  not  met  for  many  years,  made  him  a  long  call. 
During  these  winter  months  my  husband  had  not  only 
constant  visits  from  two  loved  nieces,  but  he  saw  some- 
thing of  three  of  his  favorite  nephews,  and  much  enjoyed 
getting  them  to  talk  of  their  own  lives.  Never  did  he 
dwell  upon  himself  —  never  in  health,  never  in  illness ! 
He  was  self-forgetting  to  a  degree  I  have  not  seen  nor 
shall  see  equalled.  It  was  the  childlike  attitude  of  lis- 
tener that  bright  intelligence  usually  chose  to  occupy.  Yet 
sometimes,  through  all  the  weakness,  there  would  be 
bursts  of  energy  on  some  general  subject  —  a  kindling 
of  the  old  fervor  against  some  social  wrong  or  political 
blunder.  Oh,  how  hard  it  was  to  realize  that  so  much  light 
was  so  soon  to  be  quenched ! 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

BRIGHTON,  Feb.  4,  1872. 

I  went  to  Dr.  Hilbers'  on  Friday  morning,  dear  kind 
Rebecca,  a  true  sister,  with  me.  I  wish  I  could  describe 
Dr.  Hilbers  to  you.  He  is  very  tall  —  I  don't  know  how 
tall  he  would  be  but  for  a  stoop  —  with  a  curious  awkward 
figure  which  doubles  in  two  when  he  sits  down.  I  take 


438  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

him  to  be  much  the  same  man  that  Abraham  Lincoln  was  ; 
very  plain  and  unconventional,  abrupt  too,  yet  with  some- 
thing singularly  kind.  I  could  get  very  fond  of  him.  He 
has  large,  light,  penetrating  eyes,  that  seem  to  look  into 
and  through  you,  but  with  no  sharpness  that  you  dread  — 
rather  such  perfect  understanding  as  "  makes  allowance 
for  us  all."  His  voice  is  gurgling,  slow,  and  rather  mel- 
ancholy. He  comes  and  goes  with  no  time  wasted  in  cus- 
tomary greetings.  A  most  real  man,  and  I  imagine  — 
and  my  own  has  just  indorsed  the  suggestion  —  very  like 
one's  idea  of  the  murdered  President.  There  is  such  an 
unconventionality  about  him  that  you  would  not  mind 
anything —  would  let  room,  person,  or  mind,  be  in  disha- 
bille before  him,  with  less  embarrassment  than  any  one  al- 
most I  ever  saw.  He  is  a  man  of  large  private  fortune 
as  well  as  in  very  large  practice,  and  attends  quantities  of 
people  gratis.  The  first  time  he  came  I  think  I  told  you 
how  reluctantly  he  took  a  fee.  The  last  time  he  was  here 
he  would  not  have  it.  But  as  I  see  no  occasion,  thank  God, 
to  go  to  him  in  forma  pauperis,  I  said  to  William,  "  Give 
it  me,  and  I  '11  'warstle  '  with  him."  When  I  went  into 
the  room,  without  rising  out  of  his  doubled  position, 
"  Well,  how  is  he  ?  "  he  gurgled.  I  reported  the  good 
night,  and  the  most  rapid  and  effectual  influence  of  the 
aconite.  But  I  got  no  information  except  the  inference 
that  it  is  the  watery  condition  of  the  blood,  or  in  other 
words  the  tendency  to  dropsy,  which  is  the  great  thing  to 
dread.  .  .  .  Then  I  shook  the  fee  into  his  great  hand, 
and  there  was  such  a  droll  contest.  He  started  up,  held 
both  my  hands,  and  said  "Look  here,  literary  men  are 
seldom  rich  —  are  you  well  off  ?  "  "  Certainly,"  I  said, 
"  very  —  we  owe  no  man  anything."  "  Is  it  important  to 
you  ?  "  "  Not  at  all,  at  present."  "  Will  you  promise 
you  will  tell  me  when  it  becomes  so?"  "I  will."  And 
then  with  a  look  of  disgust  at  my  bit  of  white  paper  with 
its  conventional  coin,  "  /  hate  it"  he  said.  And  I,  "  I 


PARTING.  439 

know  you  do,  but  you  must  confer  the  additional  kind- 
ness of  taking  it.  We  are  perfect  strangers,  and  have 
no  claim  upon  your  time."  "  Look  here  —  I  shall  take 
better  care  of  your  husband  if  you  don't  give  me  fees. 
And  come  again  —  come  every  day  if  you  like  —  you  do 
like,  don't  you  ?  People  always  like  a  croak  with  the 
doctor." 

BRIGHTON,  March  3,  1872. 

...  It  was  on  Wednesday  I  posted  a  note  to  your  dear 
mother,  who  was  then  ailing,  but  is,  I  hope  and  trust,  bet- 
ter now.  That  afternoon  Dr.  Hilbers  called,  felt  Wil- 
liam's pulse,  and  pronounced  it  better.  And  never  shall 
I  forget  what  I  must  call  the  divine  benignity  of  the  im- 
mense man's  rugged  face  when  he  said  this  to  me.  I 
caught  his  great  hand  in  both  mine,  and  had  such  an  im- 
pulse to  kneel  to  him  !  No,  I  never  saw  such  a  smile. 
Some  one  was  telling  Rebecca  he  had  the  largest  body 
(he  is  six  feet  four),  largest  head,  and  largest  heart  in 
Brighton.  I  am  sure  his  heart  is  exquisitely  kind.  I 
wish  you  could  see  him  —  unconventional,  with  hat  on  his 
head  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets  (I  believe  that  this  at- 
titude has  become  habitual  through  customary  avoidance 
of  fees  —  he  told  me  on  Monday  if  I  ever  alluded  to  one 
again  he  would  poison  my  husband !).  Well,  my  darlings, 
he  came  again  to-day.  I  stood  at  the  door  of  the  room 
and  just  saw  him  as  he  lounged  off.  But  he  did  seem 
satisfied,  does  seem  to  think  William  a  shade  better  — 
did  not  tell  me  to  go  to  him,  but  I  think  I  shall  to-morrow, 
just  to  know  whether  he  seemed  encouraged  or  was  so.  .  . 
There  are  now  so  many  little  things  that  I  can  do  for  my 
cherished  one,  and  he  lets  me  go  out  with  him,  and  I  think 
likes  me  with  him  more  constantly.  Yesterday  morning 
he  said,  "  When  I  woke  I  was  thinking  what  a  comfort 
to  have  you  there."  My  precious  one  !  He  is  as  pleased 
to  have  me  sleep,  and  as  reluctant  to  wake  me,  as  darling 
Granny  herself.  He  was  so  delighted  with  Mr.  Carpeu- 


440  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

ter  this  evening  —  and  it  came  over  me  like  a  revelation 
how  awful  it  would  be  to  part  with  him.  I  am  mercifully 
preserved  from  often  realizing  this.  Dear  Mr.  Carpenter 
is  so  fond  of  him.  On  Friday  I  had  him  to  myself  for  a 
little  (William  was  up-stairs)  and  that  is  always  such  a 
relief,  because  with  him  I  can  cry.  "  My  dear,"  he  said 
to  me,  "how  much  you  have  to  be  thankful  for  in  the 
beauty  of  his  character,  the  bravery  of  him,  the  sweet- 


(From  t/ie  Memoir.) 

There  were  some  signs  of  improvement  during  the  month 
of  February.  .  .  I  do  not  think,  however,  that  I  ever  had 
any  hope  of  actual  recovery.  I  think  I  knew  "  by  the 
love  that  was  in  my  heart "  what  the  end  would  be,  —  but 
not  how  near.  We  had  many  dreams  of  another  summer 
—  talking  of  Ilf racombe,  Aberystwith ;  once  of  Nairn  ; 
nay,  once  of  Men  tone  !  I  am  glad  he  had  those  floating 
thoughts,  very  thankful  that  the  knowledge  of  how  ill  he 
was  was  mercifully  kept  back,  or  at  least  was  not  abid- 
ingly present  to  him.  Certainly  he  grew  more,  rather 
than  less,  hopeful.  But  then  I  cannot  distinguish  be- 
tween what  he  spontaneously  felt  and  what  he  wished  to 
feel  out  of  his  tender  compassion  for  me.  On  the  19th  of 
February  we  went  to  London  together ;  he  to  receive  his 
yearly  dividends  at  the  bank.  The  little  trip  entailed  no 
fatigue;  and  though  it  often  flashed  across  me  that  it 
might  be  our  last,  I  think  we  were  both  rather  cheered  by 
it.  That  evening  we  counted  up  our  income  for  the  year 
to  come,  and  he  said  "  that  everything  was  pleasant  done 
together."  I  never  knew  in  any  man  quite  so  felicitous 
a  blending  of  generosity  and  prudence.  "  The  only  use 
of  money  is  not  to  have  to  think  about  it,"  was  one  of  his 
axioms.  Eminently  liberal  in  his  repayment  of  all  ser- 
vice rendered  to  him,  giving  whenever  he  could  give  with 
a  childlike  pleasure  at  the  moment,  and  then  an  absolute 


PARTING.  441 

forgetfulness,  —  personal  economy  was,  I  believe,  not  dis- 
tasteful to  him.  "  Plain  living  and  high  thinking."  would 
have  been  his  choice,  as  it  was  his  destiny.  In  his  play- 
fulness he  would  tell  me  that  when  we  came  into  our  for- 
tune (an  imaginary  £3000  a  year  that  we  used  to  argue 
about  the  disposal  of),  I  should  see  how  reformed  a  char- 
acter he  would  become  in  the  matter  of  dress ;  but  I  feel 
sure  the  old  coat,  old  hat,  old  slippers,  would  have  been 
equally  clung  to,  and  that  our  life  could  not  have  been 
rendered  more  completely  satisfying  by  any  increase  of 
means. 

On  the  fifth  of  March,  the  eleventh  anniversary  of  our 
marriage,  we  walked  together  on  the  West  Pier  —  walked 
briskly  to  and  fro  in  the  breeze  and  sunshine,  and  in  shel- 
tered corners  stood  to  watch  the  waves.  That  evening 
there  came  to  Brighton  General  and  Mrs.  Cotton,  two  of 
the  friends  in  whom  he  most  thoroughly  delighted*  Gen- 
eral Cotton' s  conversation  he  always  spoke  of  as  one  of  the 
greatest  enjoyments  procurable,  and  her  brightness  and 
charm  now  seemed  peculiarly  to  refresh  him.  On  the 
13th,  while  preparing  for  his  morning's  drive,  he  said : 
"  I  am  weaker  than  ever.  It  is  vain  to  kick  against  the 
pricks."  And  then,  with  most  pathetic  playfulness,  and 
calling  himself  by  one  of  the  myriad  pet  names  I  used  in 
our  happier  days  to  invent  for  him,  he  declared  he  could 
be  quite  sorry  for  himself,  could  pity  himself.  I  could 
not  help  saying,  "  And  me  I "  And  oh,  the  unuttera- 
ble compassion  of  his  voice,  the  deep  tenderness  that 
rung  out  in  his  reply,  "  Infinitely  !  infinitely  !  "  Then 
in  a  few  moments  he  very  solemnly  and  earnestly  went 
on,  "  There  is  a  power  stronger  than  all  our  wishes  and 
regrets,  we  must  not  let  any  angry  or  impatient  feel- 
ings creep  into  our  hearts,  we  must  quietly  and  patiently 
yield." 

On  the  same  day  we  took  our  last  walk ;  sat  out,  and 
looked  together  at  sea  and  sky  for  the  last  time.     On  Fri- 


442  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

day  we  moved  to  the  house  of  his  kind  sister-in-law  on  the 
other  side  of  the  square.  .  .  . 

When  once  the  change  was  accomplished  it  was  very 
affecting  to  notice  his  enjoyment  of  it.  Sometimes,  dur- 
ing the  last  few  weeks,  he  had  expressed  his  longing  for 
a  home,  and  now,  one  familiar  to  him  for  twenty  years, 
and  having  only  pleasant  associations,  was  eagerly  thrown 
open  to  him.  All  its  comfortable  arrangements  gave  him 
pleasure.  In  the  cheerful  bedroom  we  occupied,  pictures 
of  his  kindred  hung  upon  the  walls  ;  and  thinking  of  the 
peculiarly  tender  love  between  him  and  his  mother,  one  is 
glad  that  the  last  chair  he  ever  sat  in  should  have  been  his 
mother's  arm-chair.  He  seemed  better  that  first  evening 
at  No.  1,  and  when  General  and  Mrs.  Cotton  came  as 
usual  to  spend  it  with  him,  told  them  he  "  felt  himself  in 
paradise  since  his  move."  Yet  in  the  night,  while  I  lay 
silently  there  hoping  he  was  asleep,  he  suddenly  said, 
"  Your  love  supports  me,"  and  something  in  the  almost 
solemn  tone  of  the  voice  struck  terror  to  my  heart.  The 
next  day  he  had  his  breakfast  in  bed  for  the  first  time. 
But  he  enjoyed  his  drive,  talked  with  animation  to  his 
companion,  and  insisted  upon  walking  down  to  the  din- 
ing-room for  dinner.  This  too  he  did  on  the  Sunday,  but 
for  the  last  time.  For  now  the  bodily  strength  ebbed 
rapidly.  The  last  drive  was  on  Tuesday  the  19th,  when 
he  noticed  with  pleasure  some  beautiful  streaks  of  light  in 
the  afternoon  sky. 

I  do  not  here  enumerate  the  remedies  tried.  It  is 
enough  to  say  that  nothing  had  the  least  effect  in  checking 
those  paroxysms  of  trembling  and  breathlessness  with 
sense  of  internal  chill.  Pain  there  was  none.  He  would 
entreat  me  not  to  move,  to  fold  him  closely  in  my  arms ; 
and  so,  with  perfect  cheeriness  and  hopefulness,  thinking 
more  of  my  alarm  than  any  danger  to  himself,  he  bore 
one  fever-fit  after  another  till  they  had  wasted  him  to  a 
shadow.  On  Wednesday  evening  he  looked  sad  as  the 


PARTING.  443 

familiar  shudder  came  on  at  a  new  hour.  "  This  dashes 
our  hopes,"  he  said.  Yet  he  took  the  greatest  pleasure 
that  very  evening  in  Mrs.  Cotton's  music.  Music  had 
been  one  of  the  passions  of  his  earlier  days.  Of  late  he 
had  got  weaned  from  it,  having  a  wife  who  did  not  play ; 
and,  indeed,  even  when  the  opportunity  arose  of  gratify- 
ing the  dormant  taste,  he  had  seemed  almost  reluctant  to 
do  so.  But  now  that  he  was  getting  too  weak  for  much 
sustained  conversation,  the  "  refreshment "  of  the  sweet, 
slow,  flowing  music  —  the  only  kind  he  wished  for  —  was 
keenly  felt ;  and  this  enjoyment  he  had  for  several  even- 
ings. It  now  became  my  privilege  to  wait  upon  him 
daily  more  and  more.  Little  by  little  the  singularly  inde- 
pendent and  self-helpful  man  came  to  permit  his  wife  to 
do  everything  for  him.  But  so  perfect  the  sweetness  of 
his  nature,  and  so  exquisite  its  courtesy,  he  never  showed 
the  least  annoyance  at  this  necessity ;  he  even  made  it  a 
pleasure.  The  washing  and  dressing  —  all  gone  through 
in  bed  now  —  were  got  over  in  the  cheerf ulest  acknowledg- 
ment of  every  attempt  to  serve.  On  one  of  these  morn- 
ings some  sudden  impulse  made  me  say:  "William, 
such  love  as  mine  for  you  cannot  be  the  result  of  mere 
mechanical  or  vital  forces,  can  it  ?  "  And  he  replied,  in 
a  tone  of  conviction  from  which  in  my  darkest  hours  I 
gain  some  support,  "  OA,  no  f  It  has  a  far  higher 
source."  It  was  still  impossible  not  to  feel- happy  in  his 
presence,  and  I  knew  I  had  the  rest  of  my  life  for  sorrow. 
Yet  when  I  look  back  to  myself  at  that  time,  I  almost 
shudder  to  think  that  I  could  seem  cheerful !  But  he 
had  more  than  once  said  to  me  that  my  cheerfulness  was 
his  greatest  boon  and  delight ;  and  for  weeks  I  had  one 
wish  only  —  to  soothe  the  path  for  him.  I  never  spoke  to 
him  but  with  smiles,  with  almost  gayety,  to  which  he  in- 
variably responded.  His  sensitive  nature  was  peculiarly 
susceptible  to  gloomy  looks,  and  besides,  he  had  not  given 
up  all  hope  of  recovery.  On  this  point  he  seemed  to  have, 


444  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

so  to  speak,  a  double  consciousness.  His  knowledge  of 
physiology  must  have  told  him  of  imminent  danger ;  and, 
indeed,  many  expressions  of  his  showed  that  he  under- 
stood his  own  case  perfectly.  Yet  at  other  times  there 
was  the  hopefulness  that  characterizes  consumption. 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

BRIGHTON,  March  19,  1872. 

.  .  .  He  is  all  tenderness,  thankfulness,  serenity  —  but 
oh,  the  end  is  drawing  near !  He  will  meet  it,  thank 
God,  with  courage,  but  he  would  gladly  recover.  We 
were  so  happy,  and  no  pain  has  come  to  wean,  and  he  has 
great  pity  on  my  desolation.  If  it  had  been  God's  will ! 
But  the  cup  that  comes  to  all  is  at  our  lips  now,  and  will 
not  pass  away.  I  try  to  bear  —  I  always  can  with  him 
—  there  is  support  and  sweetness  in  our  dear  love  even 
now.  Whenever  I  go  near  him,  it  is  to  meet  the  sweetest 
smile  and  some  loving  word. 

(From  the  Memoir.) 

He  continued  to  see  friends  to  the  last.  Indeed,  his 
nature  seemed  to  grow  more  and  more  genial  and  gracious, 
more  demonstrative  of  affection.  The  smile  of  welcome 
was  warmer  and  as  bright  as  ever.  The  dear  nieces  never 
had  so  many  sweet  and  loving  words  to  garner  up  in  their 
hearts  as  during  this  last  winter.  For  me  he  had  a  bound- 
less tenderness  and  pity.  I  have  memories  of  love  and 
blessing  too  sacred  to  my  sorrow  to  be  recorded  here.  I 
had  thought  I  might  give  more  of  his  gracious  sayings. 
But  I  could  not  give  the  look,  the  tone ;  it  is  best,  as  he 
once  wrote  of  words  of  mine,  to  let  them  "  just  sink  into 
the  silence  of  one's  heart."  Yet  those  who  value  him  as 
he  deserved  will  be  glad  to  know  that  even  his  exceeding 
humility  did  not  prevent  his  realizing  that  he  was,  and 
had  long  been,  the  object  of  an  exceptional  affection.  On 
one  of  our  last  days  he  said  to  me,  "  Yours  is  a  great  love. 


PARTING.  445 

I  do  not  believe  there  ever  was  such  another."  And  an- 
other saying  of  his  will  prove  that  however  inferior  to 
him,  his  constant  companion  was  still  sufficing.  During 
one  of  the  last  nights,  fixing  the  large  dark  eyes  —  always 
beautiful,  but  never  so  beautiful  as  now  —  very  earnestly 
on  mine,  he  said,  "  I  think  you  and  I  should  make  a  happy 
world  if  we  were  the  only  two  in  it." 

On  the  morning  of  Tuesday  the  26th,  Mr.  Carpenter 
saw  him.  They  talked  politics,  discussed  the  "  Budget," 
and  my  husband's  mind  was  clear  and  keen  as  ever.  Mr. 
Carpenter  did  not  think  he  was  bidding  him  good-by  for 
the  last  time,  though  he  blessed  him,  rejoicing,  as  he  said, 
to  see  "  so  bright  a  face." 

Evj3n  on  Wednesday,  William  rose  at  the  usual  hour, 
walked  resolutely  down-stairs,  finished  the  third  number 
of  "  Middlemarch,"  which  he  had  read  during  the  last  few 
days  with  steady  determination,  listened  to  a  "  beautifully 
written  "  and  very  kind  note  from  the  author,  saw  his 
dear  niece  Clara  and  both  doctors  —  for  now  Dr.  Allen 
came  as  an  invaluable  friend,  and  for  the  last  two  even- 
ings helped  to  carry  him  up-stairs.  .  .  .  The  following 
morning,  Thursday  the  28th,  he  told  me  he  did  not  mean 
to  attempt  to  rise.  I  cannot  retrace  the  hours  of  this  last 
day.  It  seemed  as  though  he  who  hitherto  had  retained 
some  enjoyment  and  hope  of  life  now  all  at  once  knew 
that  he  was  to  die,  and  equally  acquiesced  in  it !  His  per- 
fect calm,  his  habitual  manner,  were  not  for  one  moment 
disturbed.  It  was  of  others  he  still  thought  throughout. 
He  alluded  to  the  "melancholy  of  it"  for  "poor  Re- 
becca "  (his  sister-in-law)  in  the  half -playful  manner  he 
might  have  had  on  any  other  day.  Throughout  these 
hours  of  the  last  weariness  he  used  some  of  our  words  for 
different  things,  —  for  we  had  a  language  of  our  own,  as 
I  said  before.  But  for  me  he  had  tones  of  tender  pity. 
For  me  he  "grieved  deeply r,  deeply.  He  could  have 
wished  to  live  for  my  sake  more  than  for  his  own."  And 


446  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

then  in  some  connection  that  has  escaped  me,  though  I 
strain  my  memory  often  to  recall  it,  but  I  think  in  answer 
to  some  cry  of  anguish,  and  with  a  wish  to  give  me  still 
something  to  live  for,  with  a  thrilling  earnestness  of  voice 
and  far-off  gaze  I  shall  surely  remember  till  I  die  :  "  And 
if  there  be  a  further  sphere  for  us,  it  must  be  our  part  to 
prepare  ourselves  for  it."  For  Violetta,  his  u  sweetest  of 
hostesses,"  as  he  called  her,  he  had  the  most  gracious  so- 
licitude. "  Was  she  quite  well  ?  were  we  eating  enough  ?  " 
The  mind  was  unclouded  throughout.  He  listened  to  let- 
ters, talked  of  dictating  a  reply  to  one.  The  voice  grew 
indistinct  and  the  sentences  broken ;  but  I  do  not  believe 
there  was  the  least  confusion  of  mind.  I  add  a  few  sen- 
tences jotted  down  while  the  blow  still  stunned,  and  the 
agony  was  less  felt :  "  Throughout  the  day  he  kept  tell- 
ing me  he  '  was  doing  well,'  '  was  doing  very  well,'  and 
once  I  heard  the  words,  '  Quite  normal,'  as  though  he  were 
watching  himself  die.  Once  I  saw  the  hands  clasped  as 
in  a  speechless  communion  with  the  Unseen,  and  twice  I 
caught  the  solemn  word  God,  uttered  not  in  a  tone  of 
appeal  or  entreaty,  but  as  if  the  supreme  contemplation 
which  had  been  his  very  life  meant  more,  revealed  more, 
than  ever.  When  I  said  to  him, '  Oh,  what  a  grace  of 
patience  God  has  given  you  ! '  he  shook  his  head  in  gentle 
deprecation.  .  .  . 

"  Dear  Vi  was  of  course  necessarily  called  out  of  the 
room  to  provide  for  his  wants,  and  thus  I  had  the  privi- 
lege of  never  leaving  him.  God  bless  her  for  it.  ... 
It  was  not  far  from  the  end  when  opening  his  eyes  and 
seeing  Vi  and  me  beside  him,  he  had  quite  in  cheerful 
tone  said,  '  There  they  are,  the  two  dear  creatures.' 
Later  —  as  I  bent  over  him  —  he  opened  his  eyes,  and 
with  the  same  smile  as  in  health  and  happiness,  bright, 
inexpressibly  tender,  he  took  my  face  into  his  hand  — 
twice  did  so.  This  old  familiar  caress  was  the  farewell. 

"  After  his  last  spoonful  of  turtle,  which  Vi  gave  while 


PARTING.  447 

I  raised  him,  the  peculiar  sound  in  the  throat  came  on, 
but  it  had  no  horror,  no  intensity  about  it,  and  did  not  to 
either  of  us  convey  the  fact  that  he  was  about  to  go. 
After  that  the  laboured  breathing  changed  its  character. 
Violetta  was  called  away.  I  was  quite  alone  with  my 
love.  I  got  on  the  bed  behind  him,  the  better  to  prop 
him  in  what  seemed  an  easy  sleep  —  the  hands  and  feet 
still  warm.  His  head  passed  gradually  from  the  pillow  to 
my  breast,  and  there  the  cherished  head  rested  firmly ; 
the  breathing  grew  gentler  and  gentler.  Never  shall  I 
forget  the  great  awe,  the  brooding  presence,  with  which 
the  room  was  filled.  My  heart  leapt  wildly  with  a  new 
sensation,  but  it  was  not  fear.  Only  it  would  have 
seemed  profane  to  utter  even  my  illimitable  love,  or  to 
call  upon  his  name.  This  must  have  lasted,  Vi  thinks, 
not  more  than  ten  minutes.  The  head  grew  damp  and 
very  heavy ;  my  arms  were  under  him.  Then  the  sleep 
grew  quite  quiet,  and  as  the  church  clock  began  to  strike 
ten,  I  caught  a  little,  little  sigh,  such  as  a  new-born  infant 
might  give  in  waking  —  not  a  tremor,  not  a  thrill  of  the 
frame ;  and  then  Vi  came  back  with  Clara's  nurse  (who 
having  a  peculiar  love  and  admiration  for  him  I  had  said 
might  come  up).  I  told  them  he  was  gone,  and  I  thanked 
God  for  the  perfect  peace  in  which  he  passed  away." 

He  was  buried  in  the  Brighton  Cemetery,  in  a  spot  at 
present  still  secluded,  and  over  which  the  larks  sing  joy- 
ously. There  a  plain  gray  granite  headstone  rises  "  to  his 
pure  and  cherished  memory,"  with  just  his  name  and  two 
dates,  and  this  one  line,  long  associated  with  him  in  my 
mind,  and  which  all  who  knew  him  have  felt  to  be  appro- 
priate — 

"  His  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart." 

Only  four  went  to  his  funeral  —  viz.,  Clara's  husband, 
General  Cotton,  Mr.  Carpenter  (whom  he  had  taken 
pleasure  in  introducing  to  each  other  as  "  two  of  the  no- 
blest men  he  knew  "),  and  Dr.  Allen,  his  kind  friend  of 


448  WILLIAM  AND  LUCY  SMITH. 

years.  There  were  no  mourning  trappings  —  peculiarly 
discordant  with  the  idea  of  him  —  only  the  carriage  with 
"  the  dear  gray  horses  "  followed,  and  in  it  hearts  that 
valued  him.  A  clergyman  who  had  known  him,  not  long 
but  well,  in  our  Borrowdale  home,  asked  whether  he 
might  come  and  read  the  Service.  This  will  show  the 
feelings  my  husband  inspired  in  those  whose  thoughts 
were  not  his.  Indeed,  I  never  knew  a  high  moral  nature 
that  did  not  at  once  recognize  the  purity,  righteousness, 
and  holiness  of  his.  In  the  case  of  all  such  the  sense  of 
differing  opinions  melted  away  under  the  influence  of  his 
character.  To  men  of  negative  views,  the  possibility  of  a 
future  life  seemed  to  acquire  a  deeper  interest  now  that 
he  had  passed  away;  to  those  whose  faith  in  immortality 
was  firmest,  the  conception  of  spiritual  enjoyment  became 
all  the  clearer  for  having  known  one  so  spiritually- 
minded,  so  purely  searching  after  the  truth.  I  might 
multiply  testimonies  to  this  effect,  but  they  are  not  needed 
here.  If,  however,  the  appreciation  of  the  cultivated  and 
thoughtful  seem  a  mere  matter  of  course,  it  was  yet  not 
more  marked  or  more  unfailing  than  the  love  he,  shy  and 
silent  towards  them,  won  from  all  the  simple  and  unedu- 
cated who  were  brought  into  frequent  contact  with  him. 
Something  in  his  courtesy  elevated  them,  something  in  his 
brightness  cheered.  I  do  not  think  any  person  who  ever 
spoke  to  him  half-a-dozen  times  was  quite  indifferent  to 
him.  No  man  sought  love  less,  or  was  less  careful  about 
the  impression  he  made  on  others.  But  love  unsought 
came  largely  to  him,  and  during  his  last  illness  I  think 
he  discovered,  with  something  of  sweet  and  tender  sur- 
prise, how  very  dear  he  was  to  many  !  It  was,  I  dare  to 
believe,  a  gentle,  a  cheerful  last  illness !  Of  him  every 
memory  is  sweet  and  elevating  ;  and  I  record  here  that  a 
lifelong  anguish  such  as  defies  words  is  yet  not  too  high 
a  price  to  pay  for  the  privilege  of  having  loved  him  and 
belonged  to  him. 


PARTING.  449 

These  last  pages  were  written,  as  I  have  said,  more  than 
a  year  ago,  and  there  is  nothing  to  add.  I  might  indeed 
cite  the  testimony  of  relations  and  friends  to  some  ineffable 
charm  in  his  nature,  ineffable  tenderness  in  their  regret ; 
but  I  prefer  closing  this  brief  memoir  with  words  of  his  — 
and  the  passage  I  am  about  to  quote  contains,  I  believe, 
the  very  secret  of  his  pure  life  and  the  ground  of  his 
serenity  in  death :  — 

"  There  comes  a  time  when  neither  Fear  nor  Hope  are 
necessary  to  the  pious  man  ;  but  he  loves  righteousness  for 
righteousness'  sake,  and  love  is  all  in  all.  It  is  not  joy  at 
escape  from  future  perdition  that  he  now  feels ;  nor  is  it 
hope  for  some  untold  happiness  in  the  future :  it  is  a  pres- 
ent rapture  of  piety,  and  resignation,  and  love  —  a  pres- 
ent that  fills  eternity.  It  asks  nothing,  it  fears  nothing ; 
it  loves  and  it  has  no  petition  to  make.  God  takes  back 
his  little  child  unto  Himself  —  a  little  child  that  has  no 
fear,  and  is  all  trust." 

October,  1873. 

(End  of  the  Memoir.) 


PAKT  III. 

—  Sometimes  I  could  deem 

I  heard  his  voice,  loved  voice  that  guides  me,  say, 
"  The  earth  we  loved  must  never  trivial  seem 

Although  our  joy  has  passed  from  earth  away. 

"  Go  down,  at  my  behest, 

The  smallest,  humblest,  kindly  task  to  do  ; 

/  see  the  thorn-prints  ;  hide  them  from  the  rest  ; 

Because  thou  lov'st  me  so,  love  others  too." 

L.  C.  S. 

Here  we  have  to  wait 
Not  so  long  neither  !     Could  we  by  a  wish 
Have  what  we  will  and  get  the  future  now, 
Would  we  wish  aught  done  undone  in  the  past  ? 
So  let  him  wait  God's  instant  men  call  years ; 
Meantime  hold  hard  by  truth  and  his  great  soul, 
Do  but  the  duty  !     Through  such  souls  alone 
God  stooping  shows  sufficient  of  his  light 
For  us  in  the  dark  to  rise  by. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

BEREAVED. 

"  AFTER  her  husband's  death,"  writes  the  niece  Mary, 
"  I  was  with  her  for  a  month  at  Brighton.  Her  calmness 
and  power  of  living  out  of  herself  were  amazing.  She  was 
then  so  filled  with  the  sense  of  the  nearness  of  the  time 
when  she  had  him  that  she  did  not  seem  to  suffer  as  she 
did  later  on.  She  used  to  say  sometimes  she  was  stunned. 
And  then  she  had  learned  strong  self-control  from  the 
long  habit  of  keeping  cheerful  and  bright  before  him  when 
her  heart  was  breaking.  Later  on  the  agony  was  keener. 
I  can  remember  the  look  in  her  beautiful  eyes  as  of  some 
one  in  torture.  How  she  suffered,  with  the  whole  capa- 
city of  her  nature!  Everything  seemed  an  additional 
pain.  Ah,  and  how  she  struggled  not  to  sadden  others ! 
how  to  devise  little  pleasures  and  expeditions  for  me  or 
any  friend  staying  with  her.  How  infinitely  sweet  and 
brave  she  was !  We  went  together  to  Coniston,  to  a 
pretty  cottage  called  How  Head,  quite  near  to  the  Tent 
Cottage  where  she  had  been  so  happy.  The  evening  we 
got  there,  she  found  a  letter  saying  that  her  dear  friend 
Mrs.  Jones  was  very  ill  in  Edinburgh,  had  been  ill  for 
some  little  time,  but  did  not  wish  Aunt  Lucy  to  be  told. 
The  next  morning  after  getting  the  news,  tired  as  she 
was,  and  overpowered  with  the  thought  of  being  back  at 
Coniston,  she  started  for  Edinburgh,  alone ;  and  was  in 
time  to  see  her  friend  and  be  with  her  at  the  last.  Mrs. 
Jones  said,  'You  have  never  failed  me.'  My  husband 
remembers  so  well  seeing  her  at  that  time.  She  was  stay- 
ing for  two  or  three  days  at  her  beloved  friend  Mrs.  Stir- 


454  LUCY  SMITH. 

ling's,  and  he  went  to  see  her.  She  was  in  bed,  but  asked 
for  him  to  go  and  see  her.  It  was  the  first  time  they  had 
met  since  her  loss,  and  she  could  not  speak,  but  when  he 
came  near  she  just  opened  her  arms  and  folded  them 
round  him.  She  came  back  in  a  few  days  to  Coniston, 
after  seeing  that  all  was  arranged  as  Mrs.  Jones  would 
have  wished,  and  writing  to  her  friends  and  her  many  de- 
voted priests.  I  was  with  her  some  weeks,  and  then,  first 

of  all,  Vi,  and  then  her  beloved  Hessie  H ,  came  to 

stay  with  her.  I  went  to  Ireland  to  see  my  father,  and 
came  back  to  her  in  the  autumn,  and  soon  she  and  I  went 
to  Edinburgh  for  some  weeks.  She  had  many  friends 
there,  loving  and  tender,  but  I  remember  her  saying  one 
day  she  was  like  a  person  with  a  dreadful  wound,  which 
the  tenderest,  lightest  touch  made  still  worse ;  only 

A seemed  always  like  a  soothing  dressing  of  pure 

cold  water.'* 

To  Lady  Eastlake. 

CONISTON,  June  6,  1872. 

Dear,  kind  Lady  Eastlake,  in  your  full  life  to  make 
time  for  thoughts  of  me !  I  thank  our  loved  one  [Mrs. 
Jones,  who  had  been  their  common  friend]  for  your  let- 
ters as  well  as  you.  I  had  seen  your  little  book  on  her 
table  in  London,  and  she  confided  to  me  that  it  was  writ- 
ten by  you.  I  took  it  up  and  dropped  it  with  a  sharp 
pang.  I  could  not  have  read  it.  I  could  not  then  dare 
to  realize  this  suffering.  Now  I  have  read  it  again  and 
again,  and  thanked  it  for  many  tears.  You  know  that  I 
cannot  go  along  with  all  —  but  oh !  I  don't  want  to 
argue,  only  to  be  quite  truthful.  It  is  a  wonderful  anal- 
ysis of  this  complicated  sorrow  —  a  sorrow  for  each  and 
all  of  us  special  —  having  incommunicable  phases,  ten- 
dernesses, yearnings,  heart-piercings  —  for  which  indeed 
there  are  no  words.  'I  can  hardly  understand  what  is 
commonly  called  rebellion  against  the  decree  that  took 


BEREA  VED.  455 

away,  or  question  why.  My  loved  one  warned  me  against 
letting  "  angry  or  impatient  feelings  creep  in."  I  can 
believe,  too,  that  the  time  for  him  was  the  best  time,  as 
certainly  the  manner  was  most  merciful.  I  see  abundant 
cause  for  thankfulness  in  the  past.  And,  as  you  say, 
"  We  are  to  suffer,"  and  in  what  is  natural,  inevitable, 
there  cannot  be  sin.  When  I  said  sorrow  was  not  good 
for  us  I  was  thinking  of  the  many  spontaneous  pleasant- 
nesses and  kindnesses  it  kills  in  us,  as  surely  as  the  frost 
does  the  tender  plants  of  sunny  climes.  The  evil  may  bring 
forth  fruit  by  and  by  —  but  much  that  others  loved  in  us, 
as  it  seems  to  me,  must  vanish  forever.  That  does  not 
matter  —  I  used  to  care  a  good  deal  about  being  loved  — 
a  tenacious  need,  but  this  scotches  it.  The  great  danger 
seems  to  me  the  caring  for  nothing. 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Loomis. 

CONISTON,  AMBLESIDE,  July  3,  1872. 

Dear,  kind  friends,  how  much  I  thank  you  for  your 
letter,  and  how  touched  I  am  by  the  feeling  that  led  you 
to  make  the  effort !  I  grieve  to  think  that  dictation  is 
attended  by  pain,  and  that  writing  is  still  impossible.  Oh, 
I  grieve  over  dear  Mrs.  Loomis's  anxiety  even  more  than 
for  the  privation  to  yourself !  If  you  knew  how  often  I 
have  read  your  letter,  and  what  soothing  tears  have  fallen 
over  it,  you  would  be  glad  you  sent  it.  I  am  so  deeply 
thankful  for  tears,  and  some  kind  words  go  straight  to 
the  heart  and  a  little  lighten  it.  It  is  the  unshed  tears 
that  torture.  But  you  know  what  life  with  him  was,  what 
life  without  him  must  be.  I  am  only  going  to  write  a  few 
lines,  because  with  this  you  will  receive  a  printed  letter. 
There  were  many  that  I  wanted  to  tell  something  to,  of 
his  exquisite  patience  and  serenity  —  something,  very  lit- 
tle —  and  I  could  not  go  over  the  agonizing  weeks  and 
months  again  and  again.  There  may  be  almost  nothing 
in  the  letter  that  you  do  not  know,  but  I  wrote  it  once  for 


456  LUCY  SMITH. 

all,  and  dear  Mr.  Constable  put  it  in  print  for  me,  and 
I  like  to  believe  that  besides  your  own  dear  selves  there 
may  be  some,  who  loved  his  writings,  who  will  feel  inter- 
ested in  knowing  something  of  the  man.  It  is  a  poor, 
meagre,  and  perhaps  very  trivial  record  —  meant  only  for 
kind  eyes. 

I  have  long  wanted  to  write,  but  I  waited  to  send  this. 
A  few  days  ago  a  delightful  article  by  Dr.  Porter  reached 
me.  It  is  so  true,  so  discriminating!  You  will  judge 
best  whether  he  will  care  to  read  my  other  letter. 

Sometimes  my  heart  feels  dead  and  dull,  and  I  have 
nothing  to  say,  and  hardly  feel.  Then  the  agony  wakes. 
Indeed  I  try  to  bear  it  as  he  would  have  me  do.  I  know 
how  much  I  have  to  be  thankful  for.  And  it  may  be  — 
but  oh,  my  hope  is  dim  and  feeble !  The  difficulties  so 
crushing  !  I  can  only  cry  for  more  faith  in  God's  truth, 
and  for  power  to  think  of  others.  I  won't  talk  of  my 
wretched  self. 

I  shall  indeed  long  to  hear  that  you  are  better.  I  would 
that  a  voyage  to  England  were  prescribed.  I  did  get  the 
letter,  and  the  picture  of  the  little  early  gathered  flower. 
May  you  be  long  spared  to  each  other !  It  seems  to  me 
that  there  can  come  no  crushing  sorrow  to  two.  Will  you 
let  me  know  how  you  are  ?  Will  you  tell  Dr.  Porter  that 
his  article  was  very  precious  to  me?  I  would  he  and 
William  had  met.  I  would  he  had  heard  the  welcome 
that  dear  one's  peculiarly  touching  and  varied  voice 
would  have  given  him.  I  dare  not  recall  his  voice. 

Dear  friends,  don't  think  me  selfish.  I  am  truly  inter- 
ested in  all  that  concerns  you. 

In  the  July  "Contemporary,"  William's  last  article 
appears.  He  wrote  it  last  autumn  when  he  seemed  to  be 
recovering.  He  was  superhuman  in  his  sweetness  all 
through  his  illness  and  on  his  dying  day.  Never  more 
serene.  I  forget  now  all  I  have  said  or  not  said  in  that 
printed  letter.  His  tenderest  words  are  not  there.  Oh, 


BEREA  VED.  457 

do  you  indeed  believe  that  in  some  ineffable  way  individ- 
ual love  is  undying?  I  cannot  write  this  evening,  and 
will  not  put  off  any  longer. 

My  kind,  true  love.         Your  poor  desolate  friend, 

L.  C.  S. 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

CONISTON,  July  22,  1872. 

.  .  .  Archie  read  to  us  last  night  some  of  Browning, 
and  I  must  copy  two  verses  out  of  one  of  the  poems  — 
they  stir  something  like  hope,  and  give  blessed  tears. 

Think,  when  our  one  soul  understands 

The  great  Word  which  makes  all  things  new, 

When  earth  breaks  up  and  heaven  expands, 
How  will  the  change  strike  me  and  you 

In  the  house  not  made  with  hands  ? 

Oh,  I  must  feel  your  brain  prompt  mine, 

Your  heart  anticipate  my  heart, 
You  must  be  just  before,  in  fine, 

See  and  make  me  see,  for  your  part, 
New  depths  of  the  Divine  ! 

CONISTON,  August  28,  1872. 

.  .  .  Lady  Eichardson,  who  called  the  other  day,  sent 
me  a  blessed  book  of  that  saint,  Mr.  Erskine  of  Linla- 
then,  and  it  seemed  to  open  some  light  and  hope.  It  is 
the  only  alternative  to  blank  unbelief,  and  that  is  too 
fearful  misery.  Mr.  Erskine  rejects  the  idea  of  this  life 
being  a  trial,  after  which  comes  eternal  bliss  or  eternal 
misery  —  he  is  sure  God  means  in  time  (his  time,  to  which 
a  day  and  a  thousand  years  are  alike)  to  educate  all  his 
moral  creatures  to  a  participation  in  the  divine  nature.  I 
do  indeed  believe  my  beloved  one's  earthly  education  was 
complete.  Every  virtue  seemed  to  have  had  its  perfect 
work.  And  if  I  could  lay  hold  on  this  faith,  I  should 
suffer  more  meekly,  believing  that  when  my  education  too 


458  LUCY  SMITH. 

was  finished  I  should  be  taken  too  —  and  surely  the  love 
and  trust  that  existed  between  us  will  survive  if  our  con- 
sciousness survive  —  and  I  think  it  does.  Oh,  my  child, 
what  a  difference  between  a  faith  taught  you  and  one  you 
learn  for  yourself  in  anguish  and  darkness  and  desolation 
—  a  faith  you  have  to  struggle  for,  for  more  than  life.  I 
have  had  flashes  of  light,  but  again  and  again  the  dark- 
ness and  the  agony  must  return.  .  .  . 

My  lonely  sorrow  is  dear  to  me.  Mary,  I  suffer,  but  I 
would  not  change  with  any. 

To  Lady  Eastlake. 

CONISTON,  1872. 

Mr.  Stopford  Brooke's  last  volume  of  sermons  has  four 
on  Immortality,  which  I  have  read  and  re-read.  The  sub- 
ject is,  I  may  truly  say,  the  only  one  which  has  my  inter- 
est. This  life  can  be  nothing  more  to  me  ;  except,  indeed, 
as  I  pray  and  sometimes  hope,  discipline.  The  view  of 
God's  education  of  his  moral  creatures  commends  itself 
far  more  to  my  mind  than  that  of  probation.  I  think  it 
is  far  more  than  a  verbal  difference.  But  I  find  that  con- 
tinuous argument  on  this  one  absorbing  subject  sometimes 
defeats  itself.  Even  Stopford  Brooke's  sermons  suggested 
difficulties.  It  must  remain  "  a  great  hope  but  a  dim  con- 
ception." Sometimes  a  blessed  instinct  wakes  in  me.  I 
do  not  quite  hold  with  you  that  faith  in  immortality  and 
faith  in  God  necessarily  stand  or  fall  together.  God 
ruled  before  my  poor  little  individuality  was  developed, 
and  it  would  be  to  me  even  more  terrible  to  forego  a  be- 
lief in  an  Infinite  Wisdom  than  in  my  continuous  life 
(which  has  only  one  meaning  for  me).  I  have  said  a  bold, 
and  perhaps  not  quite  true  thing.  But  I  think  it  ought 
to  be  more  dreadful.  I  remember  we  were  so  struck 
with  the  deep  devotion  of  George  Long's  preface  to  his 
"  Marcus  Aurelius,"  and  I  admired  the  perfect  resignation 
with  which  he  could  surrender  all  personal  wishes  as  to 


BEliEA  VED.  4.VJ 

immortality  to  the  Supreme  Will.  But  then  we  were  to- 
gether, and  infinitely  happy  ;  and  now  !  In  this  anguish 
which  you,  dear  Lady  Eastlake,  know  so  well,  my  whole 
soul  has  but  one  cry,  and  though  intellectually  I  can  divide 
between  these  solemn  truths,  practically  I  feel  them  one. 
How  could  one  love  a  God  unless  one  hoped  his  love  for 
his  creatures  involved,  as  you  say,  a  correlative  of  reunion 
for  this  awfulness  of  parting,  and  how  could  one  care  to 
believe  in  a  God  for  whom  one's  nature  could  have  no  re- 
sponse even  of  gratitude  ?  And  indeed  I  do  deeply  feel, 
and  more  and  more,  that  without  this  hope  one  would  sink 
to  apathy,  lovelessness,  moral  death,  and  that  it  never 
glows  within  us  without  purifying.  I  desire  so  to  grow 
better,  while  I  feel  that  this  betterness  will  fit  me  to  be 
more  with  one  who  was  here  on  earth  immeasurably  above 
me.  I  find  his  dear  words  sustain  me  often.  There  are 
passages  in  "  Gravenhurst "  that  greatly  stimulate  my 
trust  in  a  further  sphere.  The  writer  of  that  very  tender 
and  true  notice  of  my  loved  one  [  in  "  Blackwood  "  ] 
dwells  rather  too  much  on  the  negative  side  of  his  think- 
ing. It  had  its  positive  side,  which  was  light  and  guid- 
ance for  life  and  death. 

I  often  shed  tears  that  are  warm  with  hope  over  pas- 
sages of  Browning.  In  short,  helps  come  from  quarters 
where  one  did  not  expect  them.  You  have  been  very  good 
and  kind  to  ine.  You  know  how  I  suffer —  what  it  is,  to 
have  had  all  and  abounded  —  to  have  had  Heaven  —  and 
now  to  be  only  alive  to  pain  —  you  know  that  there  is  no 
exaggerating  the  difference  this  loss  makes  in  everything. 
That  blessed  peace  you  speak  of  has  made  me  rejoice  for 
you.  Do  you  know,  I  have  had  a  momentary  sense  of 
what  it  might  be. 


460  LUCY  SMITH. 

To  Miss  Violetta  Smith. 

Oct.  1872. 

When  God  sends  darkness,  let  it  be  dark.  'T  is  so  vain 
to  think  we  can  light  it  up  with  candles,  or  make  it  any- 
thing but  dark.  It  may  be  because  of  the  darkness  we 
shall  see  some  new  beauty  in  the  stars.  Indeed  I  live  in 
him  still  —  not  the  old  love,  of  joy,  and  playfulness  of 
"  antic  spirits,"  and  eager  enjoyment ;  but  a  grave  life, 
and  yearning  and  seeking;  a  life  into  which  through 
God's  goodness  the  patience  of  hope  may  come.  We 
must  all  seek  and  find  —  if  we  do  find  —  for  ourselves. 

"  Early  in  1873,"  writes  the  niece  Mary,  "  she  and  I 
went  back  to  Coniston,  not  to  How  Head,  but  to  a  pretty 
farmhouse  called  Low  Bank  Ground,  belonging  to  Miss 
Rigbye,  who  urged  her  to  return  there.  There  she  spent 
a  year,  having  always  some  one  with  her  —  my  sister 
Edith,  Violetta,  or  other  friends.  For  several  months 
from  this  time  on  she  and  I  were  much  together,  and 
when  we  were  apart  she  wrote  comparatively  little,  as  she 
was  suffering  sadly  from  her  eyes." 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Loomis. 

CONISTON,  April  2,  1873. 

.  .  .  Over  none  of  the  letters  that  I  have  received  have 
I  shed  more  tears  than  over  the  first  that  Mr.  Loomis  dic- 
tated and  you,  dear  friend,  wrote  out.  He  speaks  of  "  the 
mingled  sense  of  loss  and  possession."  Yes,  indeed  —  I 
am  still  his,  and  that  imposes  upon  me  self-control.  Only 
just  let  me  say  that  a  year  is  nothing,  nothing,  in  the  way 
of  assuagement  by  habit  of  life  without  him.  It  is  not 
life.  I  love  him  more  day  by  day.  I  know  him  better. 
As  the  earthly  bliss  recedes,  I  see  the  angel  in  him  even 
more  clearly.  And  no  shyness  now  prevents  my  speaking 
of  him  as  he  was.  And  now  —  I  will  not  speak  of  him 
any  more. 


BEREA  VED.  461 

I  did  get  your  November  letter,  and  it  was  exceedingly 
welcome,  for  I  had  been,  as  you  know,  anxious.  It  was  a 
comfort  to  see  that  you  were  able  to  use  your  pencil  for  so 
long  a  time  together,  but  you  said  the  letter  was  written 
at  intervals,  and  I  fear  from  the  fact  of  this  last  letter 
being  in  dear  Mrs.  Loomis's  handwriting  that  your  head 
still  interferes  with  some  of  your  pursuits.  Indeed,  I  was 
interested  in  the  new  house,  and  I  am  glad  there  is  no 
danger  of  the  pretty  view  being  interfered  with.  And  I 
was  deeply  interested  in  hearing  of  the  removal  of  the 
dear  mother  to  your  present  home.  How  a  venerable  old 
age  completes,  sanctifies  a  family  !  How  precious  to  chil- 
dren the  special  indulgence,  the  boundless  toleration,  of 
the  grandmother.  You  must  tell  me  more  of  her  and  the 
children  when  you  write  again.  I  was  in  Edinburgh  for 
nine  winter  weeks  ;  I,  and  a  dear  niece  who  is  to  me  like  a 
child.  I  think  she  .enjoyed  Edinburgh,  and  I  could  like 
to  see  her  enjoyment,  and  besides  we  have  friends  there 
whom  I  could  never  bear  to  relinquish  —  one  especially,  a 
good  deal  older  than  myself,  and  the  nearest  approach  to 
motherliness  that  the  world  holds  for  me.  Early  in  Jan- 
uary Mary  and  I  came  here  ;  came  to  a  farmhouse,  pret- 
tily situated,  in  which  I  have  taken  rooms  for  a  year. 
My  dear  child  liked  giving  it  a  comfortable  look,  hanging 
pictures,  arranging  books,  and  I  have  my  husband's  bust 
in  one  corner,  and  though  the  low  ceiling  is  far  too  near  it, 
still  it  seems  to  elevate  and  refine  the  whole  place.  I  send 
you  a  copy  of  it.  .  .  .1  think  it  is  very  like  "  the  author 
of  Thorndale."  But  it  is  sad,  and  my  husband  had  what 
does  not  appear  in  his  photographs  and  his  writings,  such 
a  fountain  of  joyous,  playful  life,  making  his  companion- 
ship such  pure  bliss.  He  had  all  that  shows  in  the  baby 
face  which  I  send  to  Daisy.  The  little  miniature  must 
have  been  taken  when  he  was  between  two  and  three.  It 
has  yellow  hair,  but  with  that  exception  is  very  faithfully 
reproduced.  Looking  at  this  bright  child  you  will  under- 


462  LUCY  SMITH. 

stand  how  he,  the  youngest  child  of  a  large  family,  was 
the  "  especial  pet "  of  both  parents.  Or  perhaps  —  and 
yet  I  think  that  is  not  likely  —  you  may  not  admire  it. 
All  there  is  in  this  face  —  innocence,  joy,  wonder,  wistful- 
ness,  simplicity  —  all  was  in  the  man  to  the  last.  And 
because  of  that  ineffableness  —  which  made  my  dear  Mr. 
Constable  say  he  "  never  saw  him  without  longing  to  take 
him  into  his  arms  ;  "  which  made  his  niece  Clara,  on  the 
eve  of  a  happy  marriage,  write  to  him,  "  But  nobody  can 
be  to  me  what  you  are ;  "  makes  his  eldest  sister  (a  widow 
who  has  lost  children)  tell  me,  "  I  can  never  think  of  dear 
William  without  tears  —  it  is  not  so  with  others  ; "  be- 
cause of  the  nameless  something,  made  up  of  pathos  and 
sweetness,  I  who  loved  him  so  and  was  so  closely  and 
solely  his  companion,  —  suffer,  suffer  !  Oh,  I  hope  many 
are  not  so  utterly  and  irremediably  bereaved. 

I  am  glad  you  are  reading  that  marvellous  "Middle- 
march."  Everything  pains  now,  and  that  pains.  Rosa- 
mond's unworthiness  threw  a  shadow  of  dread  over  me. 
This  great  genius  makes  one  so  aware  of  the  "  solidarity 
of  the  human  race."  None  of  her  characters  are  unnat- 
ural. One  feels  guilty  —  at  least  I  did  as  I  read  —  of 
much  unsuspected  selfishness.  And  I  have  heard  others, 
in  whom  I  saw  no  flaw,  speak  of  the  book  as  charged  with 
the  prophet's  power  of  "  bringing  sin  to  remembrance." 
The  writer  is  very,  very  kind  to  me,  and  sends  me  sweet, 
tender  notes.  I  could  like  you  to  see  the  last.  But  she 
cannot  help  me.  For  she  has  given  up  the  hope  of  contin- 
ued life,  in  which  alone  I  can  live.  If  I  did  not  —  how- 
ever weakly  and  waveringly  —  believe  that  we  are  crea- 
tures of  a  loving  God,  training  here  for  some  solution 
by  and  by  ;  that  this  anguish  may  be  killing  in  me  some 
faults  which  would  hinder  our  complete  togetherness  there 
—  life  would  be  so  hideous  I  would  not  lead  it.  She  is 
braver  and  better,  and  besides  she  has  the  love  which  is 
happiness  and  seems  religion.  But  the  poorest  and  weak- 


HERE  A  VED.  463 

est  soul  that  holds  some  instinctive  conviction  of  a  "  fur- 
ther sphere,"  taught  perhaps  by  sorrow ;  holding  it  really, 
not  only  having  been  brought  up  to  say  it  —  helps  me 
more  than  that  glorious  woman  can.  Mr.  Lewes's  book, 
just  advertised,  will  create  a  good  deal  of  interest.  He 
sent  a  sketch  of  it  to  my  husband,  last  February  year.  I 
shall  not  read  it.  My  cry  to  heaven  and  earth  is,  "  Help 
my  unbelief  !  "  I  dare  not  hear  arguments  to  eliminate 
God  from  the  universe.  But  neither  can  I  return  to  the 
old  Orthodoxy  in  which  I  grew  up.  Channing's  "  Per- 
fect Life,"  Martineau's  "  Sermons,"  and  "  Le  Recit  d'une 
Soeur,"  have  been  precious  and  soothing.  And  often  my 
husband's  books  throw  a  slanting  ray  of  light,  —  and  so 
the  days  go  on,  and  one  year  is  over. 

Will  you  convey  to  President  Porter  my  gratitude  for 
the  pamphlets  he  sent  me,  still  more  for  his  letter.  What 
an  exquisite  character  Professor  Hadley's  !  One  thinks 
such  cannot  end  when  they  die.  But  there  is  a  position 
of  his  I  nevermore  could  occupy.  I  can  believe  in  no  dis- 
location of  our  nature  —  only  in  its  ordered  growth,  and 
in  no  help  from  the  Divine  but  according  to  and  by  means 
of  a  Divine  Purpose,  which  cannot  be  interfered  with  and 
needs  not  rectification. 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

CONISTON,  April  5, 1873. 

.  .  .  Channing's  "  Perfect  Life  "  is  very  beautiful.  I 
have  to  fight  daily  for  some  faith  in  which  to  suffer  sanely 
—  not  make  others  suffer.  "  The  Everlasting  Yea  "  is 
what  we  must  seek  after,  or  miss  our  fullest  development. 
Perhaps  we  shall  word  our  seeking  and  our  finding  differ- 
ently, but  oh,  so  we  seek  and  find  !  .  .  .  I  copy  out  a  bit 
from  Greg's  "  Enigmas  of  Life."  May  you  know  one 
day  all  its  truth. 

Who  that  has  truly  tasted  and  fathomed  human  love  in  its 
dawning  and  its  crowning  joys  has  not  thanked  God  for  a  feli- 


464  LUCY  SMITH. 

city  which  indeed  "  passeth  understanding  "  !  If  we  had  set  our 
fancy  to  picture  a  Creator  occupied  solely  in  devising  delight  for 
children  whom  He  loved,  we  could  not  conceive  one  single  ele- 
ment of  bliss  that  is  not  here.  We  might  retrench  casualties  ;  we 
might  superadd  duration  and  extension  ;  we  might  make  that 
which  is  partial,  occasional,  and  transient,  universal  and  endur- 
ing; but  we  need  not  and  we  could  not  introduce  one  new 
ingredient  of  joy. 

How  I  set  my  seal  to  that !  I  have  lived  eternities  in 
some  moments  of  quite  unbounded  joy.  I  used  to  say  to 
him,  "  If  I  might  die  now  !  "  and  he  would  reply,  "  How 
cruel  to  me  !  "  —  but  that  was  the  feeling.  It  is  wonder- 
ful to  think  what  the  presence  of  one  human  being  can  do 
for  another  —  change  everything  in  the  world.  ...  I 
have  wonderfully  beautiful  sermons  .of  Martineau's. 

Some  God  sends  transparent  into  this  world,  and  leaves  us 
nothing  to  gather  and  infer.  Goodness,  truth,  acquired  by  oth- 
ers, are  original  to  them.  .  .  .  Such  beings  live  to  express  them- 
selves, to  stand  between  heaven  and  earth  and  mediate  for  our 
dull  hearts.  With  fewer  outward  objects  than  others,  or  at  least 
with  a  less  limited  practical  mission  devoting  them  to  a  fixed 
task,  their  life  is  a  soliloquy  of  love  and  aspiration.  Usually 
they  do  not  less,  but  rather  more  than  others ;  only  under  some- 
what sorrowful  conditions,  having  spirits  prepared  for  what  is 
more  than  human,  and  being  obliged  to  move  within  limits  that 
are  human.  The  worth  of  such  a  life  depends  little  on  its  quan- 
tity, it  is  an  affair  of  quality  alone.  These  highest  ends  of  ex- 
istence have  but  slight  relation  to  time.  Years  cannot  mellow  the 
love  already  ripe,  or  purify  the  perceptions  already  clear,  or  lift 
the  aspiration  that  already  enters  heaven. 

CONISTON,  April  9,  1873. 

.  .  .  Two  days  ago  a  sweet  letter  from  M.  A.  R.,  tell- 
ing her  purpose  of  coming  on  the  nineteenth.  Oh,  how  I 
cried  over  it !  I  did  not  think  much  wish  for  anything 
survived,  but  I  do  feel  a  singular  emotion  at  the  idea  of 
seeing  her.  .  .  .  But  I  must  not  think  overmuch  of  it  — 


BEREA  VED.  465 

she  may  not  be  able.     Mrs.  A is  noble,  I  am  sure,  a 

heroine  of  endurance.  People  are  so  noble !  The  poor 
young  washerwoman  —  who  by  the  way  tears  up  my  cuffs 
and  frills  in  a  wonderfully  rapid  way,  so  that  I  find  my- 
self almost  without  any,  spite  of  your  stock,  you  dear 
child  —  has  been,  it  seems,  sleeping  for  months  in  an  in- 
fected atmosphere.  There  was  an  old  cousin,  distant 
cousin,  of  her  father's,  a  woman  with  several  children, 
but  not  one  of  them  came  forward  to  save  her  from  the 
workhouse ;  and  this  good  man  said  she  should  never  go 
there  so  long  as  he  could  work.  So  in  their  tiny  cottage 
she  has  lived  and  suffered  three  years.  I  never  knew  of 
her  existence  till  it  was  over.  She  died  last  Monday  of 
cancer.  And  this  young  girl  nursed  her  and  slept  in  her 
room,  and  now  frets,  fearing  she  did  not  do  enough ! 
Well  might  she  tear  my  cuffs,  poor  dear  —  she  had  her 
hands  full. 

You  may  remember  that  I  told  you  of  an  old  hawker  of 
tea  with  whom  Fanny  and  I  walked  some  short  time  ago, 
and  with  whose  cheerfulness  I  was  struck.  Three  days 
ago  I  discerned  him  coming  along  the  field,  and  darted 
out  with  my  little  offering.  It  was  touching  to  see  that 
I  seemed  to  surprise  him.  But  perhaps  he  heard  some- 
thing in  my  voice  that  made  him  pity  me  ;  anyhow,  his 
heart  was  poured  out,  and  I  do  not  know  that  anything 
ever  struck  me  as  more  sublime  than  his  experience.  He 
was  a  parish  'prentice,  as  he  said,  "  fatherless,  motherless, 
sisterless,  brotherless,  auntless,  and  uncleless."  Quite 
alone,  used  to  hardship  in  youth,  —  then  maimed  and  al- 
most blinded  in  the  mines ;  now  seventy-two,  long  a 
pauper,  hawking  about  tea,  and  getting  a  mere  pittance, 
as  you  can  believe.  Yet  with  all  this,  and  without  the 
sweet  training  of  human  love,  he  is  quite  happy  —  "  just 
leans  on  God  "  —  has  an  abiding  sense  of  the  Divine  Love 
ordering  all,  and  of  all  being  right,  which  makes  him  not 
merely  patient,  but  very  cheerful.  I  never  heard  a  more 


466  LUCY    SMITH. 

remarkable  utterance,  it  was  so  simple  and  evidently  hon- 
est, ending  as  he  did,  "  but  these  things  are  not  for  talk- 
ing about,  only  it  is  so  with  me." 

To  Mrs.   Ruck. 

CONISTON,  1873. 

.  .  .  Ah,  my  dear  one,  we  might  safely  have  kept  you 
half  a  day  longer ;  but  you  would  have  been  just  as  surely 
gone  now,  and  your  little  stay  would  have  been  a  tender, 
touching,  sweet  dream  —  from  which  however  one  wakes 
strengthened.  .  .  .  Thank  you  for  copying  dear  Mrs. 
Forde's  good  true  words.  Tell  her  I  feel,  through  all  the 
pain,  thankfulness  —  for  the  fond  close  union  which  raised 
me  into  higher  moral  life  as  no  other  influence  ever  did. 
And  oh,  I  share  her  hope  —  to  me  the  only  hope  that  can 
avail  to  keep  one  loving,  to  purify,  to  exalt.  A  hope  to 
be  influential  must  be  hope  —  that  is,  strong  desire  be- 
lieving future  attainment  probable.  In  me  there  can  be 
only  one  strong  desire.  It  may  never  be  realized  —  but 
so  long  as  my  consciousness  endures,  the  only  appeal  to  the 
principle  of  hope  within  me  must  be  in  conformity  with 
the  laws  of  my  consciousness.  A  dog  cannot  be  lured  by 
a  bank-note,  but  by  a  penny-bun  —  a  child  will  prefer  the 
story-book  with  pictures  to  the  philosophical  treatise.  It 
may  be  that  hereafter  we  shall  rise  to  the  general  in  some 
sense  transcending  our  present  faculties  even  to  conceive 
of.  Meanwhile  I,  who  have  known  a  love  so  immeasur- 
ably superior  to  any  other  feeling  in  intensity  as  to  de- 
serve by  contrast  to  be  called  infinite,  can  only  be  sus- 
tained by  hope  in  that  love  meaning  something  for  me  not 
only  here  but  elsewhere. 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

CONISTON,  April,  1873. 

You  are  my  own  dear  child,  and  friend  of  many  years, 
and  I  can  rouse  myself  out  of  the  perpetual  sorrow  which 


BEREA  VED.  467 

makes  up  my  life,  to  wish  for  you  the  things  I  hold  good 
things ;  a  deep,  intense  love  for  one  higher  and  stronger 
than  yourself,  or  that  peace  and  joy  which  come,  one  sees, 
to  some  elect  natures  who  have  got  rid  of  the  achings  and 
yearnings  of  self,  and  live  in  the  life  of  others.  That  is 
hardest,  but  divinest  no  doubt.  That  is  what  I  must 
strain  and  strive  after  for  the  rest  of  my  days,  on  pain  of 
moral  decomposition.  But  for  you  I  am  still  tied  and 
bound  by  such  fond  memories  of  earthly  bliss,  I  must  wish 
and  look  for  that ;  and  in  the  mean  time  there  is  your 
dear,  bright  little  self  to  go  on  educating  more  and  more. 
And  so  I  like  to  know  that  you  have  assimilated  "  Sartor 

Kesartus."  .  .  .  Mr. was  much  disappointed  in  the 

Vienna  Exhibition  —  but  then  it  was  not  at  its  best,  half 
the  things  undisplayed  —  and  said  the  expense  of  Vienna 
was  frightful.  Did  you  notice  what  the  "  Times  "  corre- 
spondent said  on  that  head,  that  the  saying  u  See  Naples 
and  die  "  might  be  parodied  by  "  See  Vienna  and  become 
bankrupt"?  And  Mr.  has  no  doubt  learned  prac- 
tically during  his  year's  sojourn  abroad  that  change  of 
place  does  little  or  nothing,  or  worse  than  nothing,  for  a 
rooted  sorrow.  If  there  be  a  truth  beyond  disputation,  it 
is  this :  — 

I  may  not  hope  from  outward  things  to  win 

The  passion  and  the  life  whose  fount  is  from  within. 

For  myself  I  should  not  care  —  not  now  of  course  — 
should  never  have  cared  to  see  anything  unless  I  was 
happily  companioned.  But  there  are  tastes  of  all  kinds, 
and  it  takes  a  good  deal  of  learning  to  know  assuredly 
that  "  the  eye  is  not  filled  with  seeing,  neither  the  ear  with 
hearing,"  and  that  the  one  help  for  any  of  us  lies  in  doing 
and  being  —  oh,  my  darling,  how  hard  to  learn  it,  I  know  ! 

.  .  .    has   been   seeing   some  pictures.     How   her 

drawing  has  elevated,  steadied  her  life,  kept  her  always 
growing,  aspiring,  alive  to  nature  and  art,  and  so  by 
making  her  happy  made  her  beneficent  and  helpful.  One 


468  LUCY  SMITH. 

has  dark  moods  of  questioning  the  use  of  it  all ;  but,  im- 
material as  it  may  seem  if  we  fix  our  eyes  upon  the  great 
sum  of  human  effort,  yet,  the  universal  being  made  up  of 
the  particular,  it  does  matter  that  individuals  should  be  as 
healthily  developed  as  possible,  that  they  may  radiate 
healthy  influence ;  and  therefore  it  is  good  to  have  a  pur- 
suit, even  if  we  do  not  attain  excellence. 

To  Rev.  Allan  Menzies. 

CONISTON,  June  1,  1873. 

.  .  .  But  you  must  have  enough  of  theology  —  certainly 
mine  would  be  superfluous.  I  cannot  even  define  what 
it  is.  It  is  only  a  clinging  and  a  cry  —  a  thankfulness 
that  would  fain  be  trust  —  a  human  agony  that  would 
throw  itself  on  some  Divine  Pity,  and  grow  into  some 
Tightness. 

CONISTON,  July  28,  1873. 

.  .  .  Your  letters  interest  me,  but  to  see  and  speak  with 
you  would  be  a  still  deeper  interest.  The  old  pleasure  in 
writing  is  so  over  and  gone.  Writing  should  be  just  the 
overflow  of  life.  With  me  now  life  is  low,  and  thought 
all  concentrated,  made  up  of  many  memories  and  one 
hope.  When  I  am  with  others  the  habit  and  instinct  of 
sympathy  makes  me  an  attentive,  sometimes  an  eager  lis- 
tener. When  the  pen  is  in  my  hand  it  is  an  effort  to  turn 
away  from  that  ever-growing  sorrow  which  is  my  life. 
But  indeed  I  do  not  depress  others. 

I  follow  the  career  of  such  men  as  Mr.  Knight,  Mr. 
Stevenson,  and  yourself  with  deep  and  genuine  interest. 
There  is  no  resisting  the  law  of  evolution  in  thought,  any 
more  than  elsewhere.  The  great  fundamental  concep- 
tions must  be  differently  expressed.  Happy  are  they  who 
are  quite  sure  of  one  or  two  truths.  ...  I  want  to  know 
whether  you  are  acquainted  with  the  writings  of  the  Rev. 
G.  D'Oyly  Snow,  There  is  in  the  "  Contemporary  "  a 
paper  of  his  on  "  Natural  Theology  "  by  which  I  have  been 


BEREA  VED.  469 

exceedingly  struck.  The  views  are  much  akin  to  those 
put  forth  in  "  Gravenhurst ;  "  the  only  views,  as  it  ap- 
pears to  me,  that  is  now  possible  to  hold  on  that  long 
vexed  question  of  moral  evil.  I  think  Mr.  Snow  one  of 
the  clearest  and  most  suggestive  (one  is  sick  of  that  term, 
rather)  writers  I  have  come  across.  But  indeed  these 
last  numbers  of  the  "  Contemporary  "  are  full  of  interest. 
Herbert  Spencer's  papers  on  Sociology  I  have  not  read 
through,  but  the  last,  on  "  The  Theological  Bias,"  is  the 
very  essence  of  justice,  candor,  reasonableness.  .  .  . 

Tell  me  about  your  life.  "  Great  faith  in  spiritual 
powers,"  you  say.  Do  you  mean  love,  sympathy,  strong 
belief,  strong  desire  —  removing  mountains,  always  mould- 
ing, creating  one  might  say  the  individual  and  society ;  or 
do  you  mean  anything  more  ? 

In  a  letter  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Loomis,  of  Nov.  5,  1873, 
after  speaking  with  warm  pleasure  of  a  photograph  of 
President  Porter,  she  continues:  "His  and  your  letters 
have  done  me  good,  and  I  have  followed  your  suggestion 
and  written  a  short  sketch  of  my  husband's  life.  But  I 
feel  it  will  be  no  history  of  his  thinking,  and  sometimes  I 
fear  it  will  be  mere  failure  —  that  he  will  not  show 
through.  I  have  no  one  to  consult,  and  it  is  only  for 
friends."  This  was  the  "Memoir,"  which,  privately 
printed  at  first,  was  at  a  later  time,  yielding  to  the  urgency 
of  friends,  published  in  the  same  volume  with  "  Graven- 
hurst  "  and  "  Knowing  and  Feeling." 

The  impression  her  letters  give  of  her  needs  one  addi- 
tion. When  she  writes,  the  sorrow  of  her  heart  always 
finds  expression.  But  as  she  mingled  with  her  friends, 
she  so  threw  herself  into  their  interests  that  in  them  she 
seemed  to  live.  They  were  conscious  principally  not  of 
any  suffering  in  her,  but  of  an  element  of  exquisite  sym- 
pathy, cheer,  and  tender  radiance,  which  she  brought  into 
their  lives.  In  such  intercourse  too  she  showed,  as  indeed 


470  LUCY  SMITH. 

might  well  be  guessed  from  her  letters,  a  vivid  interest  in 
the  passing  events  of  the  hour,  a  keen  observation  of  char- 
acter, and  a  charming  playful  humor.  As  compared  with 
the  pictures  of  her  that  live  in  her  friends'  memories,  the 
impression  given  by  her  letters  is  a  too  sombre  one.  Noth- 
ing can  supply  to  it  the  lighter  touches,  the  grace  and 
charm  and  play,  of  which  not  even  her  bereavement 
robbed  her.  Writes  a  friend  :  "  We  shall  never  laugh 
again  as  she  used  to  make  us  laugh  with  her  humorous 
descriptions  and  quaint  conceits."  Speaking  of  a  visit 

near  the  end  of  her  life,  Mrs.  B writes  :  "  I  said 

something  to  her  of  how  impossible  I  felt  it  to  select  from 
the  catalogue  of  my  ailments  any  one  that  was  not  to  my- 
self most  hateful.  She  looked  at  me  with  a  very  bright 
arch  light  in  her  face,  and  said,  4  Oh,  my  dear,  I  love  my 
ailments  !  I  find  them  quite  to  my  mind  ! ' 

Mrs.  Bishop  (Miss  Isabella  Bird),  writing  after  her 
death,  expresses  what  all  felt :  "  I  miss  her  more  than  I 
can  say.  It  seemed  so  natural  to  turn  to  her  swift  com- 
prehension and  ready  sympathy  in  everything  of  special 
interest,  never  to  be  disappointed.  She  was  so  unique  and 
wonderful,  so  developed  on  every  side.  While  her  rare 
gifts  made  one  feel  small  beside  her,  her  sympathy  seemed 
to  make  one  at  one's  best  while  with  her  —  listening  to 
her  wonderful  words  about  things  small  and  great,  and 
looking  at  her  face  and  eyes,  so  much  fuller  of  soul  than 
any  other's.  She  was  so  encouraging  !  and  she  saw  things 
that  no  one  else  saw,  and  made  one  see  them ;  saw  beauty 
and  goodness  where  only  the  commonplace  was  evident  to 
others,  and  so  intensely  loved  and  glorified  those  she 
loved,  till  one  saw  them  in  a  halo  too.  She  lived  and 
thought  and  felt  so  keenly,  and  put  all  unworthy  things 
and  thoughts  so  utterly  outside  her  ken,  that  an  hour  with 
her  seemed  an  hour  of  illumination.  I  never  saw  any  one 
more  absolutely  free  from  egotism,  and  yet  she  communi- 
cated more  of  herself  than  any  one." 


BEREA  VED.  471 

A  workingman,  who  was  led  to  write  to  her  by  his  ad- 
miration of  "  Thorndale,"  says  of  her  letters  to  him  :  "  I 
never  opened  one  that  did  not  afford  me  means  of  grace 
for  many  a  day  afterward.  I  am  not  irreverent  in  thought 
when  I  think  of  her  as  always  manifesting  (to  me  it  seems 
so)  the  constancy  of  God  —  changeless  in  all  sorrow  and 
joy.  We  have  an  impulse  toward  all  good  in  the  very 
thought  of  her  as  she  lived  and  wrote  and  spoke.  Times 
there  must  have  been  when  the  grossness  and  uncouth- 
ness  through  which  I  have  had  to  struggle  all  my  life  long 
must  have  manifested  their  influence  to  her ;  but  ah !  not 
a  word  of  this  pain  to  her  sensitive  spirit  escaped  the  pen. 
And  this  is  only  one  of  those  intimations  of  her  royal 
nature  which  showed  themselves  in  her  letters,  and  for 
which  I  am  and  ever  shall  be  her  debtor."  "  I  have  a 
strange  feeling,"  wrote  another  friend  after  her  death, 
"  that  I  never  again  shall  be  worth  so  much,  as  when  her 
loving  sight  seemed  to  elevate  me  into  something  above 
myself." 

Each  friend  instinctively  gave  to  her  the  worthiest  of 
his  thought,  the  finest  of  his  feelings ;  and,  by  imparting 
so  much  of  this  as  was  permissible  to  her  other  friends, 
she  interpreted  them  all  to  one  another  through  their 
noblest  traits.  "  How  privileged  you  are,"  writes  one  of 
them  to  her  in  returning  another's  letter,  "  to  have  com- 
forted by  a  word  a  spirit  like  that !  There  is  a  spell 
about,  you,  for  even  I  am  conscious  of  having  grown 
better  under  your  influence.  I  have  kept  back  words, 
when  I  thought  of  you,  that  would  have  poisoned  my 
life  if  I  had  uttered  them,  though  I  thought  I  was  only 
feeling  a  righteous  indignation." 

"  It  is  difficult,"  says  one,  "  to  give  an  idea  of  her  bril- 
liant playfulness,  her  lightness  of  touch,  the  little  inde- 
scribably dainty  and  droll  descriptions  —  and  this  while 
the  aching  sorrow  and  faithful  love  were  always  there. 
She  was  like  sunshine  in  her  cheerfulness,  and  radiance 


472  LUCY  SMITH. 

and  like  the  tender  dew  in  her  intense  pity  and  gentle  un- 
speakable helpfulness,  and  like  a  reviving  breeze  in  her 
strong,  clear,  decided  opinions,  and  instant  perceptions  of 
what  was  the  right  thing  to  do  or  say." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

READJUSTMENT. 

SHE  passed  the  winter  of  1873-74  at  Cambridge, 
and  the  lonely  season,  apart  from  all  familiar  and  be- 
loved surroundings,  tried  her  brave  spirit  sorely.  When 
in  the  spring  she  went  to  Dunkeld  in  Perthshire,  the 
place  where  she  had  spent  happy  weeks  in  1859,  and 
among  the  scenes  that  had  such  power  over  her,  one  sees 
in  her  words  a  revival  of  the  heart.  The  winter  of  1874- 
75  was  passed  in  Edinburgh,  near  her  beloved  Archie 
and  Mary,1  and  in  all  the  after  winters  her  home  was  under 
the  same  roof  with  them;  while  most  of  her  summers 
were  henceforth  passed  at  Patterdale.  Of  her  other  jour- 
neyings,  the  letters  themselves  will  for  the  most  part  suf- 
ficiently tell  the  story. 

To  Mrs.  Larimer. 

CAMBRIDGE,  Jan.  17,  1874. 

I  am  thinking,  how  beautiful  your  view  must  be  looking 
this  clear,  keen  day,  and  I  trust  all  is  as  well  and  bright 
within  the  happy  home  as  when  I  saw  it  last  —  that  wild 
evening  when  my  coming  disturbed  all  the  young  ones 
grouped  around  the  dear  mother-bird,  who  looked  one  of 
the  youngest  of  the  party.  I  have  been  reading  an  interest- 
ing, thought-rousing  paper  of  Miss  Cobbe's  on  "  Hetero- 
pathy,  Aversion,  and  Sympathy."  Were  the  latter  but 
more  perfect !  But  it  is  growing  in  the  race,-and  one's  own 
aching  heart  at  least  recognizes  it  to  be  its  legitimate  aim. 
I  must,  however,  always  believe  happiness  a  vantage-ground 

1  Married  in  1874. 


474  LUCY  SMITH. 

for  the  exercise  of  all  virtues.  One  of  the  books  that  I 
read  just  now  most  persistently  is  lent  me  by  our  beloved 
Mrs.  Stirling.  It  is  a  very  large  volume,  on  "  The  His- 
tory of  the  Doctrine  of  a  Future  State."  That  is  for  me 
"the  ocean  to  the  river  of  all  thought."  I  should  like 
you  to  read  Miss  Cobbe's  paper  —  it  is  in  the  "  National 
Review."  She  seems  to  think  sympathy  with  joy  comes 
before  sympathy  with  pain,  and  makes  out  her  case  well 
with  regard  to  animal,  savage,  and  childish  life.  But  I 
have  always  noticed  that  the  ruder,  the  less  cultured  na- 
tures one  knows  nowadays  are  far  more  capable  of  being 
sorry  for  you  than  glad  with  you. 

You  will  wonder,  however,  what  sets  me  off  on  these 
topics,  and  why  I  don't  tell  something  of  the  whereabouts, 
etc.  Dear,  there  is  so  little  to  tell.  If  I  described  the 
house,  the  squalid  street,  you  would  think  I  was  complain- 
ing, and  I  do  not  even  feel  much  difference.  And  though 
the  street  is  very  squalid,  and  I  have  seen  faces  as  brutal- 
ized as  in  the  Old  Town  of  beautiful  Edinburgh,  this 
abode  stands  back  from  it  in  a  nursery  garden,  and  is 
quiet  and  airy  as  to  situation,  with  about  two  acres  of 
garden  ground  in  front  of  it.  Very  mean  and  dingy  the 
the  little  house  is,  but  then,  so  marvellously  cheap.  It  is 
really  better  than  I  expected,  not  worse ;  and  the  good 
woman  is  sensible  and  obliging,  very  fond  of  discoursing 
to  me.  She  has  been  married  more  than  forty  years,  yet 
her  hair  is  still  black,  while  her  good  husband's  is  white 
as  snow.  She  lost  two  children  in  infancy,  and  had 
no  others.  Her  husband  is  everything  to  her  now. 
"  Lord,  mum,  I  often  says  to  myself,  what  ever  should  I 
do  if  I  lost  him  !  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  get  on  at 
all !  "  And  then  she  rambles  off  about  the  nieces  and 
nephews  that  -have  fallen  to  their  share,  that  they  have 
had  "a  terrible  hand  with,"  or  else  helped  on  to  some 
successful  industry. 

My  one  friend,  dear  Annie  Clough,  is  away  just  now, 


READJUSTMENT.  475 

and  when  she  returns  she  is  too  busy  with  her  household 
to  have  leisure  for  companionship.  But  I  am  attached 
to  her  by  happy  associations,  and  the  sound  of  her  voice 
reminds  me  of  the  days  of  life.  New  voices  I  shall  never 
care  to  hear.  Letters  are  really  a  boon  here,  linking  one 
with  happier  lives.  Tell  me  of  all  your  darlings.  Now  I 
have  seen  them,  I  can  realize  all  you  say.  Good-by,  my 
dear  and  very  sweet  Hannah.  Are  you  sure  I  did  not 
alienate  you  by  disliking  over-much  the  lecture  you  so 
kindly  took  me  to  ?  I  don't  feel  now  as  if  I  ever  should 
be  vehement  again  about  anything.  I  believe  that  this 
period  of  silence  will  be  good  for  me.  Oh,  if  I  could  grow 
like  what  I  love  so  absolutely  !  Never  was  he  vehement 
against  anything  that  interested  others. 

To  President  Porter. 

DUNKELD,  Aug.  13,  1874. 

...  I  know  that  you  will  expect  me  to  write  of  my 
husband,  for  whose  sake  alone  you  are  so  kind  to  me. 
Those  lines  you  so  much  admire  ("  There  is  a  sweetness 
in  the  world's  despair  ")  made  a  great  impression  upon 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewes.  She  writes :  "  I  think  I  never 
read  a  more  exquisite  little  poem  than  the  one  called 
4  Christian  Resignation,'  and  Mr.  Lewes  when  I  read  it 
aloud  at  once  exclaimed,  '  How  very  fine !  Read  it 
again.' '  To  them,  apart  from  its  melodiousness,  the 
charm  probably  lay  in  the  renunciation  of  a  future  bliss, 
the  acceptance  of  love  and  sorrow  here.  You  know  they 
are  Positivists.  Oh,  Dr.  Porter !  You  wonder  how  / 
can  have  a  doubt  of  immortality  !  The  very  intensity  of 
my  desire,  my  craving  to  believe  that  he,  my  so  inexpress- 
ibly loved  one,  lives,  as  you  say,  "  an  intensely  real  and 
personal  life,"  —  defeats  itself,  I  do  believe.  The  over- 
strained eye  loses  the  power  of  vision.1  I  was  never  hope- 

1  Dr.  Holmes  says,  in  Elsie  Venner :  "  All  wonderful  things  soon 
grow  doubtful  in  our  own  minds,  as  do  even  common  events,  if  great 
interests  prove  suddenly  to  attach  to  their  truth  or  falsehood." 


476  LUCY  SMITH. 

f  ul  —  nor  was  he  —  though  we  were  so  strangely  joyous 
together.  Temperament  must  colour  all  things,  our  faith 
as  well  as  the  rest.  I  strive,  I  pray,  I  die  to  believe  what 
you  do,  even  more  and  more.  I  could  not  let  Mrs.  Lewes 
suppose  for  a  moment  I  thought  as  she  did.  Her  gentle 
hand  would  not  put  out  any  light,  however  irrational  she 
may  hold  that  intermittent  ray  which  yet  is  my  all.  She 
says  in  reply  :  "  All  that  goes  to  my  heart  of  hearts.  It 
is  what  I  think  of  almost  daily.  For  death  seems  to  me 
now  a  close,  real  experience,  like  the  approach  of  autumn 
or  winter,  and  I  am  gfad  to  find  that  advancing  life 
brings  this  power  of  imagining  the  nearness  of  death  I 
never  had  till  late  years."  Then  again,  after  alluding  to 
nieces  of  mine  who  have  been  and  are  with  me :  "  You 
can  feel  some  sympathy  in  their  cheerfulness,  even  though 
sorrow  is  always  your  only  private  good  —  can  you  not, 
dear  friend  ?  And  the  time  is  short  at  the  utmost.  The 
blessed  re-union,  if  it  may  come,  must  be  patiently  waited 
for,  and  such  good  as  you  can  do  to  others  by  loving  looks 
and  words  must  seem  to  you  like  a  closer  companionship 
with  the  gentleness  and  benignity  which  you  justly  wor- 
shipped while  it  was  visibly  present,  and  still  more  per- 
haps now  it  is  veiled  and  is  a  memory  stronger  than  vis- 
ion of  outward  things."  I  know  you  will  feel  an  interest 
in  reading  her  words.  I  do  not  —  forgive  me  (but  you 
will  say  truth  needs  not  to  be  forgiven)  —  /do  not  think 
your  view  of  my  husband's  position  as  a  religious  thinker 
is  quite  the  correct  one.  If  ."the  mind  that  was  in 
Christ,"  the  moral  perfectness,  the  "  sweet  reasonable- 
ness," the  soul  athirst  for  God,  the  utter  indifference  to 
the  outward  things  which  the  bulk  of  human  beings  seek 
after  —  if  justice,  gentleness,  purity,  —  if  these  make  a 
man  a  Christian,  then  indeed  he  was  one.  But  the  "  per- 
petual unrest  of  thought "  you  allude  to  was  excited  by 
other  subjects,  and  I  think  far  more  vital  subjects,  than 
any  connected  with  "  positive  and  historical  Christian 


READJUSTMENT.  477 

faith,"  There  his  position  had  been  long  denned  to  him- 
self. He  held,  you  *  know,  of  the  most  eminent  teachers 
that  they  were  "  raised  up  by  God  —  I  do  not  say  mirac- 
ulously because  in  my  conception  all  his  works  are  equally 
miraculous."  I  have  read  your  sermon  with  deep  atten- 
tion, and  I  hope  some  little  profit.  But  I  cannot  return 
to  my  early  conception  of  Christianity.  ...  I  have  read 
your  letter  so  often  —  I  think  indeed  much  of  those 
words,  "  Be  over-solicitous  for  nothing."  And  sometimes 
I  have  felt  that  if  my  mind  could  like  his  be  more  utterly 
resigned  to  be  or  be  not  immortal,  according  as  Infinite 
Wisdom  should  decide,  I  should  have  more  abiding  hope. 
But  I  suffer  greatly  —  God  only  knows  how  I  loved  and 
love  that  sweet  spirit  given  to  me  by  Him, 

Dear  thought  of  God,  that  God  will  stQl  think  on. 
That  line  came  one  day  into  my  head  and  haunts  me  often. 

To  Miss  Lyon. 

CAMBRIDGE,  1874. 

...  I  wish  such  joy  and  quick  throbbing  life  of  course 
to  all  the  young.  And  yet  I  am  pretty  sure  (and  you 
know  mine  was  a  youth  with  plenty  of  variety  and  excite- 
ment) that  youth  is  not  the  happiest  period  in  any  happy 
life.  ...  I  read  much  and  with  intense  interest  in  some 
directions.  The  good  of  a  little  home  is  that  it  affords 
greater  variety  of  occupations.  Your  garden  is  a  pleas- 
ure, and  a  most  healthy  one  I  am  sure.  How  your  dear 
mother  loved  her  garden !  How  odd  it  seems  to  the 
young  that  elderly  people  should  have  anything  worth 
calling  pleasure  !  As  we  go  on,  our  life  includes  that  of 
the  young.  They  can  hardly  understand  ours,  any  more 
than  we  can  understand  the  conditions  of  that  other  life, 
to  the  hope  of  which  we  cling,  but  we  know  every  throb 
of  theirs.  I  fancy  I  retain  with  peculiar  vividness  my  in- 
tellectual sympathy  with  the  young. 


478  LUCY  SMITH. 

To  Mrs.  Larimer: 

CAMBRIDGE,  1874 

Yes,  dear,  I  was  in  church  —  that  is,  I  was  in  chapel 
—  in  an  Independent  chapel,  on  Sunday  morning ;  and 
though  the  tears  did  rain,  as  they  must  to  the  end  —  not 
here  will  they  be  wiped  away  —  yet  they  were  not  so  bit- 
ter. I  was  listening  to  a  good,  true  man,  who,  daring  to 
tell  his  hearers  how  very  little  he  is  sure  of  or  even  cares 
to  be  sure  of,  has  the  firmer  hold  on  their  minds  when  he 
speaks  of  those  things  on  which  he  has  attained  as  full  a 
conviction  as  of  his  own  existence.  He  has  won  that 
great  and  fundamental  faith  in  God  which  leads  him  to 
have  faith  also  in  the  instincts  of  his  own  God-created 
nature,  and  one  of  the  strongest  of  these  he  finds  to  be 
prayer.  Many  things  grew  a  little  clearer  to  me  as  I  lis- 
tened to  this  Dr.  Robertson  (a  Scotchman  plainly),  and  I 
should  rather  like  to  know  him.  I  do  not  tell  you  I  can 
accept  all  his  conclusions,  and  probably  were  he  not  fet- 
tered, he  might  think  on.  But  the  one  important  matter 
is  not  so  much  the  how  people  formularize  their  trust  in 
God,  as  that  they  should  have  it.  I  was  reading  your 
book  on  Sunday  evening,  and  appropriating  from  it  what 
I  could  hold,  and  feeling  strongly  that  in  the  holding  it 
lay  all  the  hope  of  growth.  There  was  great  need  of 
elimination,  but  yet  a  broad  strong  light  seemed  flashed 
in  on  my  consciousness,  and  if  I  did  not  believe  (feebly 
as  yet)  that  God's  purpose  is  to  educate  us  out  of  evil,  I 
do  not  know  how  I  should  bear  the  amount  of  wrongness 
I  see  in  myself.  Dear,  one  should  not  say  these  things. 
Friends  think  it  is  humility  that  speaks.  Not  so  !  But 
then,  just  as  society  gets  on  by  that  which  was  not  evil  at 
one  stage  (slavery,  for  instance)  becoming  conscious  evil 
at  another,  and  thus  being  renounced  —  even  so  in  our- 
selves, these  new  discoveries  of  wrongness  must  involve  a 
higher  conception  of  Tightness.  And  if  the  "  Power  that 


READJUSTMENT.  479 

makes  for  righteousness  "  be  —  and  He  must  be  —  on  the 
side  or  rather  at  the  very  bottom  of  these  strivings,  there 
is  hope.  Oh,  I  have  much  to  overcome  !  I  lived  in  and 
on  love  —  the  love  of  one  who  was  myself,  my  goodness, 
my  wisdom  !  There  was  no  seeming  need  of  conflict  — 
now  it  must  be  all  conflict  and  renouncement. 

To  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 

DUNKELD,  June  18, 1874. 

.  .  .  Last  evening  I  was  out  till  ten,  gazing  at  his  cot- 
tage —  at  ours  —  counting  the  steps  between  the  two  ; 
thinking,  thinking ;  loving  him  so  absolutely,  as  he  was 
then,  was  ever,  and  surely  as  he  is  now ;  "a  part  of  all 
the  loveliness  he  once  did  make  more  lovely "  —  to  me, 
whose  supreme  good  he  was,  and  is,  and  may  be  even  when 
you  speak  of  us  both  as  passed  away.  I  feel  lulled  in  the 
strangest  trance,  as  if  sorrow  had  taken  some  opiate.  I 
am  not  frightened  at  the  thought  of  solitude,  though  I  can 
hardly  tell  yet.  As  yet  I  sit  and  do  nothing  half  the  day. 
It  is  all  so  wonderful !  So  much  joy,  so  much  grief,  and 
the  body's  life  going  on  through  it  all. 

To  Mrs.  Cotton. 

DUNKELD,  1874. 

...  I  went  again  one  evening  to  see  Mrs. ,  and  I 

see  that  she  is  a  far  more  interesting  person  than  I  sup- 
posed. I  don't  know  that  I  have  ever  erred  in  over- 
rating —  in  under-rating,  often.  As  I  write  the  sentence 

the  thought  of  -  —  and  Miss occurs.     But  I  could 

not  over-rate  what  Miss was  while  she  liked  me,  what 

she  would  always  be  to  those  she  approved.  I  think  per- 
haps she  lacks  indulgence,  and  that  my  character  requires 
it  especially.  I  always  appropriate  the  lines  — 

And  you  must  love  me,  ere  to  you 
I  shall  seem  worthy  of  your  love. 

And  I  am  sure  —  -  has  the  fine  and  noble  qualities  I  ac- 
credited her  with. 


480  LUCY  SMITH. 

To  the  Rev.  Allan  Menzies. 

NURSERY  GARDEN,  DUNKELD,  July  7,  1874. 
.  .  .  Nothing  gives  me  the  same  throb  of  warm,  vivid 
feeling  —  that  used  to  be  so  natural,  that  always  now 
comes  as  a  surprise  —  as  to  find  that  my  husband's  char- 
acter has  been  duly  appreciated,  and  that  his  works  are  in- 
fluencing younger  minds.  Since  a  notice  of  the  "  Essays  " 
appeared  in  the  "  Scotsman,"  I  have  had  some  very  grati- 
fying proofs  of  the  deep  interest  he  excited.  One  of  the 
letters  I  allude  to  is  from  a  Dundee  man  ;  judging  from 
the  handwriting  I  should  say  one  of  the  artisan  class  ; 
and  the  enthusiasm  with  which  he  writes  of  the  "mental 
regeneration  "  he  underwent  through  the  study  of  "  Thorn- 
dale  "  gratifies  me  even  more  than  the  tribute  paid  by  a 
Yorkshire  clergyman ;  though  that  is  peculiarly  precious 
because  it  tells  of  an  interview  with  my  husband  many 
years  ago,  when  he  was  solitary,  and  / —  could  no  more 
guess  what  fulness  of  life  lay  before  me  than  I  can  now 
what  may  be  in  store  for  us  in  that  "  further  sphere  " 
toward  which  my  whole  being  must  henceforth  yearn.  .  .  . 
I  find  these  words  of  his  in  a  manuscript  book,  —  he  has 
been  treating  of  the  rude  elementary  conception  of  an 
angry  God  :  — 

Higher  thought  shall  correct  this  also.  You  have  seen,  felt, 
enjoyed,  a  thousand  times  the  great  gifts  of  Life.  Some  day 
you  see  the  Giver  in  the  gifts.  Happiest  revelation  !  Did  any 
veil  lift  itself  from  the  sky  ?  No,  but  the  glory  of  the  sky  be- 
came as  it  were  the  glory  of  God.  The  light  and  beauty  are  to 
us  his  glory. 

I  always  noticed  in  the  upturned  and  kindling  eye  that 
gazed  at  tree  or  mountain  or  cloud,  not  so  much  admira- 
tion as  adoration.  Only  one  thing  exceeds  the  loss  —  the 
love.  That  lives  on,  affording  me  such  new  experiences 
as  make  me  understand  the  growth  of  a  religion  better 
than  ever  before.  Do  you  know  (you  will  not  think  me 


READJUSTMENT.  481 

blasphemous)  that  no  words  so  express  my  consciousness 
as  some  of  St.  Paul's  :  "  I  live,  yet  not  I  —  he  lives  in 
me."  The  adored  ideal  by  filling  modifies  our  heart  and 
mind,  so  that  our  personality  seems  merged  in  another. 
But  this  will  not  be  spoken,  still  less  written. 

I  was  ten  days  here  alone,  re-living  the  summer  of  1859. 
And  they  were  the  most  living  days  I  have  had  since  he 
left  me.  The  constant  pain  seemed  to  have  something 
under  and  beyond  it. 

.  .  .  When  will  you  come  and  see  me  ?  You  will  be 
truly  welcome.  I  do  take  interest  in  these  church  ques- 
tions, and  shall  understand  them  better  when  I  have 
heard  you  speak  of  them.  Only,  all  these  questions  seem 
so  merely  provisional,  so  evidently  secondary,  questions  of 
taste,  questions  of  to-day.  The  one  thing  that  does  mat- 
ter appears  to  me  :  what  conception  the  human  race  in 
its  development  retains  or  frames  of  God,  and  whether  its 
hope  of  another  life  strengthens  while  it  changes. 

To  Miss  Violetta,  Smith. 

[1874.]  I  think  it  so  much  better  not  to  write  than  to 
swell  the  flood  of  merely  commonplace  productions ;  and 
it  should  be  understood  that  every  educated  man  and 
woman  can  rhyme,  but  that  poetry  is  and  always  will  be 
rare.  No  doubt  there  are  times  when  the  thoughts  within 
us  can  only  be  uttered  so,  but  one  need  not  want  stran- 
gers to  listen.  To  me  the  duty  in  this  age  of  the  world  of 
not  writing  comes  out  very  strongly 

A  thoroughly  healthy  organization  is  as  rare  as  genius 
is.  Most  of  us,  when  we  come  to  think  of  it,  have  an  ache 
or  a  discomfort  located  somewhere  in  our  uncomfortable 
bodies.  That  is  why  excitement  does  us  good,  it  makes 
us  forget  our  lower  range  of  sensations.  Love  of  some 
other  is  the  best  cure,  and  mental  effort. 

[Christmas  Day,  1874.]  Mazzini's  "Life"  came,  by 
which  I  was  deeply  interested,  and  supported  somewhat. 


482  LUCY  SMITH. 

I  had  felt  so  desolate  I  was  obliged  to  go  in  quest  of  one 
as  desolate  —  a  poor  Irish  woman,  whom  I  had  seen  sitting 
on  a  doorstep  in  thick-falling  snow.  She  lived  in  one  of 
the  worst  parts  of  the  Old  Town.  Oh,  my  Vi,  how  the  poor 
suffer !  But  the  dear  old  soul,  the  goodness  of  whose  coun- 
tenance there  was  no  mistaking,  was  quite  cheerful,  and 
full  of  God's  goodness  to  her.  She  says  she  is  eighty- 
eight,  but  I  think  it  must  be  seventy-eight ;  anyhow  she  is  a 
wonder  and  a  lesson,  and  I  shall  go  again  for  a  lesson  in 
courage  and  patience.  She  makes  patchwork  counter- 
panes ;  rags  are  given  to  her  which  she  works  up,  and  if 
she  can't  sell  them  she  pawns  them,  and  the  work 
"  amuses "  her.  She  is  kept  alive  by  a  son,  a  laborer 
who  supports  wife,  six  children,  sick  father-in-law,  and 
aged  mother.  That  is  my  idea  of  a  good  man  !  The  old 
woman  has  the  good  breeding  of  her  country,  and  saw  me 
down-stairs  with  dignified  courtesy.  When  I  asked  if  she 
were  pretty  warm  in  bed  she  said,  "  Well,  reasonable  — 
yes,  reasonable  "  —  in  a  tone  that  will  I  hope  often  recur 
to  me  as  I  sit  and  shiver  with  all  appliances,  and  a  great 
folding-screen  from  dear  Mr.  Constable. 

To  Mrs.  Cotton. 

PLAS  COCH,  1874. 

.  .  .  My  Mary,  it  is  a  wonderful  thing  to  be  capable  of 
intense  happiness,  and  then  to  live  entirely  without  it  — 
save  indeed  in  memory.  Two  nights  ago  I  dreamed  of 
William,  as  I  seldom  do,  and  the  restored  joy  —  so  natural, 
so  warm,  so  all-pervading  —  gave  me  a  still  fuller  con- 
sciousness of  the  strange  unnatural  chill  and  isolated  con- 
ditions under  which  I  exist  —  with  some  phosphorescent 
kind  of  cheerfulness,  that  for  others  lightens  the  darkness, 
and  with  certainly  a  true  if  not  deep  interest  in  all  that  is 
going  on  for  others.  I  do  not  say  this,  dear,  complain- 
ingly,  nor  even  is  it  a  cry  of  irrepressible  anguish,  but  the 
wonderfulness  of  our  nature's  range  has  so  come  home  to 


RE  A  DJUSTMENT.  488 

me.  I  shall  never  in  this  life  fully  know  how  unhappy  I 
am.  The  return  of  joy  would  reveal  as  it  removed.  Only 
then  could  one  bear  to  fathom  the  abyss,  when  delivered 
from  it  forever. 

To  Mrs.  Cotton. 

EDINBURGH,  1874. 

If  you  have  time  for  reading,  there  is  a  book  of  Ha- 
merton's  on  Animals  that  is  quite  amazing.  I  suppose 
you  too  have  fogs  in  London,  perhaps  even  yellower  and 
thicker  than  ours.  I  've  been  a  very  poor  creature,  and 
have  looked  startlingly  cadaverous.  But  I  have  I  do  be- 
lieve a  strong  constitution,  and  I  get  round  again  to  the 
old  level.  And  the  time  is  going  on.  May  '75  be  very 
happy  to  you  both  !  Did  I  tell  you  I  wonder  of  Mr.  — 

meeting    the  B s  at  dinner    and    speaking  to  Lizzie 

much  of  me  in  connection  with  his  "  dear  wife  "  —  send- 
ing me  messages  of  remembrance,  and  on  going  away 

saying,  "  I  hope  we  shall  meet  again,  Mrs.  B ,  for  your 

connection  with  Mrs.  Smith  brings  you  very  near  to  me." 
This  touched  me.  He  used  to  dislike  me  very  much,  but 
that  was  only  a  jealousy  of  an  intimate  friend.  Now  that 
loved  one  has  become  a  reason  for  liking  me  !  Many  of 
our  faults  are  deciduous.  Different  sides  of  a  character 
come  out  to  different  people  —  you  and  dear  General 
Cotton  always  evoke  the  best. 

THE  WAITING  ROOM. 

How  well  within  the  reach  of  all 

Life's  precious  things  indeed  ! 
The  kindly  word,  the  offering  small, 

The  slight,  spontaneous  deed. 
What  "  New  Year  gift  "  could  leave  behind 

A  sweeter  trace  than  this  — 
A  sudden  impulse,  good  and  kind, 

A  country-woman's  kiss  ? 

The  words  exchanged  were  very  few, 
Mere  simple  talk,  no  more  ; 


484  LUCY  SMITH. 

But  each  one's  heart  the  other  knew, 

A  common  garb  we  wore. 
Her  train  came  first,  she  took  my  hand, 

Held  fast,  and,  saying  this  — 
"  We  '11  meet  no  more  on  earth,"  she  gave 

A  widow- woman's  kiss  ! 

To  Mr.  Menzies. 

1874. 

...  I  hardly  know  why,  putting  down  the  "  Times,"  in 
which  I  have  for  the  second  time  read  Tyndall's  address, 
I  should  at  once  turn  to  talk  in  this  poor  way  to  you.  It 
is  all  so  wonderful !  Here  are  people  thanking  him  for 
his  very  interesting  lecture,  accepting  apparently  his  con- 
clusions as  the  last  word  in  our  present  state  of  knowl- 
edge, and  yet  I  dare  say  they  '11  be  in  church  next  Sun- 
day all  the  same.  Why,  I  feel  my  hands  grow  quite  cold 
with  the  excitement  of  the  train  of  thought,  the  issues 
seem  to  me  so  tremendous.  I  should  wonder  how  any 
one  can  ponder  any  other  subject,  did  I  not  know  the  law 
of  mental  perspective,  and  that  some  ephemeral  matter, 
matter  of  the  present  hour's  strong  feeling,  hides  those  far 
mysteries  from  the  gaze ;  that  some  dear  presence,  and 
the  gladness  it  brings,  may  seem  to  solve  them ;  or  some 
agony  of  parting  dissipate  their  importance.  But  there  is 
one  parting,  one  sorrow,  to  which  this  subject  must  ever 
be  vital  above  all  others.  Oh,  how  I  agree  with  the  one 
who  said,  "  This  life  without  faith  in  a  supreme  intelli- 
gence would  be  intolerable."  Can  that  deep  personal 
need  be  only  the  result  of  hereditary  influence,  the  teach- 
ing of  countless  generations  ?  Has  it  been  intensified  in 
ages  of  persecution,  so  that  it  still  endures,  but  is  it 
doomed  to  die  out  as  men  are  less  and  less  driven  by  suf- 
fering to  refer  all  chance  of  satisfaction  to  some  other 
world  ?  I  feel  that  train  of  thought  torturing,  but  it 
must  come  and  go.  ...  Does  it  not  seem  to  you  as  if  the 
human  mind  always  grew  by  exclusively  and  alternately 


READJUSTMENT.  485 

laying  stress  upon  one  aspect  of  a  duality ;  then  suddenly 
a  few  see  that  it  is  a  unity  ;  that  the  contrast  was  but  ap- 
parent ?  With  the  words  "  natural "  and  "  supernatural  " 
what  real  difference  do  we  indicate  ?  Only  that  between 
the  common  and  the  rare ;  for  even  between  the  normal 
and  the  abnormal  there  can  only  be  the  division  between 
a  familiarly  known  law  and  one  less  familiar. 

I  should  like  to  know  how  you  have  felt  this  address  of 
Tyndall's.  But  you,  engaged  in  teaching,  in  the  effort 
to  "  lift  the  life,"  which  he  does  and  all  other  sound  intel- 
lects must  allow  to  be  the  noblest  result  of  all  our  "  know- 
ing and  feeling  "  —  you  cannot  torture  yourself  with  the 
mere  intellectual  problem.  Do  you  know  these  words  of 
Victor  Hugo,  — 

"  Celui  qui  ne  pense  pas  est  aveugle, 

Celui  qui  pense  est  dans  1'obscurite', 

Nous  ii'avons  que  le  choix  du  noir." 

And  yet  how  different  the  attitude,  and  how  that  which 
thinks  and  yearns  and  loves,  and  strains  with  wide-opened 
faculties  toward  the  light  its  very  efforts  and  defeats  pre- 
sage ;  how  that  —  call  it  soul,  "  mentalized  matter,"  what 
you  will  —  how  it  must  sometimes  believe  that  what  we 
know  not  now  we  shall  know  hereafter ! 

The  other  day,  looking  over  my  husband's  manuscript 
books,  I  came  upon  a  passage  written  some  twelve  years 
ago,  which  I  take  in  connection  with  a  clause  in  Tyndall's 
speech  toward  the  close :  "  If,  still  unsatisfied,  the  human 
mind,  with  the  yearning  of  a  pilgrim  for  his  distant  home, 
will  turn  to  the  Mystery  from  which  it  has  emerged,  seek- 
ing so  to  fashion  it  as  to  give  unity  to  thought  and  faith," 
etc.  This  is  what  my  husband  has  jotted  down  —  you 
can  understand  with  what  reverence  I  turn  for  help  to 
him :  "  There  may  be  a  normal  development  of  the  human 
mind,  according  to  which  certain  ideas  or  truths  are  gen- 
erated and  become  universal  faiths.  These  truths  are  not 
presented  to  us  at  once  in  the  forms  they  are  destined  to 


486  LUCY  SMITH. 

reach,  in  the  full  and  perfect  form ;  but  they  may  have  a 
determined  growth,  and  finally  take  a  form  as  truth  recog- 
nized by  all.  Such  seems  to  me  the  grand  idea  of  God. 
I  do  not  venture  to  pronounce  that  the  idea  present  to  my 
mind  is  that  final  idea  which  will  prevail,  but  it  is  final  to 
me  ;  and  there  will  probably  come  a  time  when  all  men 
sufficiently  cultivated  will  rest  in  some  final  idea." 

I  like  and  find  help  in  this  thought  —  God  developing 
humanity  into  ever  higher  conceptions  of  his  nature,  thus 
raising  theirs  (for  here  there  must  be  constant  interac- 
tion) ;  at  last  perhaps  some  grand  perception  of  Unity, 
our  personality  not  lost,  yet  God  all  in  all. 


CHAPTEE  XXXI. 


To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Loomis. 

EDINBURGH,  February  9,  1875. 

.  .  .  Indeed,  indeed,  if  I  were  with  you,  you  would  not 
find  me  grown  egotistical.  I  can  listen  with  I  think  deep- 
ened interest  to  all  that  concerns  the  lives  of  others.  But 
when  I  write  (I  who  have  no  life  any  longer)  I  must  re- 
vert to  the  one  in  whom  I  lived,  and  for  whose  sake  alone 
I  have  any  value.  .  .  .  You  know  the  one  subject  that  is 
forever  in  my  mind.  That  "  to  be  or  not  to  be  "  is  the 
only  question  for  those  whose  soul  has  left  them.  I  have 
more  hope  —  I  have  but  hope.  Some  profess  intuitive 
certainty.  Here  is  a  passage  from  a  little  book,  D'Oyly 
Snow's,  that  helps  me  much  :  — 

What  saves  me  from  a  weak  uncertain  faith,  that  would  be 
scarcely  better  than  atheism,  is  the  conviction  that  tidings  of 
God  and  immortality  do  not  depend  on  hearsay,  or  on  the  cor- 
rectness of  a  certain  version  of  ancient  history,  but  that  they  are 
by  a  natural  process  made  gradually  to  stamp  their  impression 
on  the  mind  of  the  creature  as  it  advances  in  consciotcsness  ;  in 
fact,  that  it  is  not  by  the  violation  of  the  universal  creative 
method,  but  by  the  working  of  that  method  in  its  ordinary  way, 
that  man  comes  at  the  hope  that  is  "  full  of  immortality." 

[Extracts  from  letters  to  Miss  Edith  Wrench  at  different 
times. ^ 

Every  effort  made  turns  into  strength. 
All  we  haye  and  are  is  pure  gift. 


488  LUCY  SMITH. 

Enjoying  each  other's  good  is  Heaven  begun. 

[Speaking  of  a  bit  of  work  done.]  It  teaches  me  to  en- 
ter into  the  pleasure  the  artistic  must  have  in  designing 
their  own  patterns.  That  is  the  advantage  of  any  even 
mediocre  performance,  that  it  enables  you  to  enter  more 
sympathetically  into  the  higher  attainments  of  others.  I 
wish  I  had  discerned  this  truth  earlier  in  life,  instead  of 
throwing  up  drawing,  etc.,  because  I  could  not  excel. 
Even  in  the  matter  of  weeding  this  small  plot,  and  watch- 
ing the  plants  grow,  —  the  success  will  be  small  indeed, 
but  I  enter  more  fully  into  the  delight  of  a  garden  for 
others.  And  the  extension  of  our  own  personality  by 
sympathy  is  just  another  word  for  progress,  such  as  is  pos- 
sible to  us  in  this  world,  such  as  we  hope  for  in  another 
and  brighter  sphere. 

Only  supporting  supports. 

Oh,  to  be  always  as  good  as  one's  word,  unless  there  be 
some  grave  deliberate  reason  for  rescinding  a  project! 
How  melancholy  it  is  that  people  should  so  habitually 
neglect  their  promises !  The  value,  the  imperativeness, 
of  the  spoken  word,  would  be  the  first  thing  I  should  im- 
press upon  a  child  if  I  had  one  to  educate. 

There  is  nothing  so  terrible  as  ingratitude.  That  is 
why  it  is  so  dreadful  when  those  who  have  been  kind  to 
one  change ;  one  so  fears  one  has  been  ungrateful. 

[DuNKELD.]  I  got  on  the  rough  ground  above  the 
road,  covered  with  Trientalis,  and  a  lovely  little  shrub 
with  waxy  pink  bells,  and  I  saw  a  scene  of  glory  I  shall 
never  forget.  The  day  had  been  cloudy  and  showery,  but 
as  he  got  low  the  sun  broke  out,  and  there  was  a  trans- 
formation indeed.  The  mountains  seen  through  golden 


"LOVE   OTHERS   TOO.11  489 

i 

mist  might  have  been  Alps  in  height,  and  the  distant 
trees  were  very  dark,  while  the  birches  in  front  of  me 
were  all  interpenetrated  with  light,  and  stood  bending  as 
in  worship  before  the  great  glory.  Every  leaf  was  quite 
still,  and  glistened  with  rain.  How  the  birds  sang !  The 
cuckoo  prattled  about  it,  but  some  of  the  thrushes  seemed 
to  have  caught  the  very  secret  of  the  scene,  and  to  sing  it 
out  in  a  rapture  of  praise.  Ah,  my  Edith,  no  world  surely 
can  be  fairer  than  this ! 

Every-day  life  must  be  lived  on  the  level  of  cheerful 
contentment.     Looking  back  through  my  varied  years  I 
can  remember  with  regret  how  dull  I  used  to  find  home 
after  some  exciting  visit ;  and  I  thankfully  call  up  the  re- 
membrance that  later  my  precious  mother  spoke  of  my 
habitual  cheerfulness  as  something  priceless  to  her.     To 
the  young  I  would  whisper  that  life  cannot  be  all  conscious 
vivid  enjoyment.     I  sometimes  think  I  might  have  done 
better  in  my  early  days  if  I  had  known  this.     Of  course 
our  health  seems  better  (because  we  are  too  much  oc- 
cupied with  other  things  to  notice  ups  and  downs)  when 
we  are  in  new  scenes  and  places  ;  and  I  fancy  we  are 
never  acting  more  in  conformity  with  the  highest  guid- 
ance than  when  we  try  to  counterbalance  the  quiet  routine 
by  some  employment.     I  was  three  hours  in  the  woods 
yesterday,  alone,  but  not  alone,  and  oh,  my  Edith,  how 
beautiful  this  stillness  was,  with  gleams  of  slanting  sun- 
light on  moss  and  stones,  and  red  fir  trunks,  and  such 
squirrels !     Struan  hunted  terribly,  for  I  was  afraid  he 
never  could  get  out  of  the  thick  tangle  of  rhododendrons ; 
and  afterward  in  the  fern  he  did  catch  a  rabbit,  but  I 
took  it  from  him  —  he  did  not  know  how  to  kill  it.     The 
sweet  creature  was  in  a  swoon  of  terror,  but  as  I  carried 
it  it  revived,  and  its  eye  brightened,  and  when  the  little 
sportsman   was  off   in  another  direction  I  put  it  into  a 
covert  of  fern,  and  believe  it  will  recover. 


490  LUCY  SMITH. 

DUNKELD,  May  10,  1875. 

.  .  .  My  dear  Edith's  letters  are  always  very  inter- 
esting, and  give  the  impression  of  not  having  been  written 
in  great  haste.  Whenever  you  feel  hurry  in  a  letter  the 
charm  is  gone.  But  during  a  visit  no  one  can  give  or 
ought  to  give  much  time  to  absent  friends,  and  it  was  very 
sweet  of  my  chick  to  write  at  all,  and  my  generalization  has 
no  personal  application.  You  will  say  that  my  eyes  must 
be  better,  seeing  my  return  to  my  small  niggling  hand. 
Well,  they  are  better  and  worse.  Yesterday  was  a  very 
bad  day  of  doing  nothing  but  nurse  Struan  and  disen- 
tangle his  lovely  coat.  I  fear  I  shall  never  have  strong 
eyes  again.  I  have  great  varieties  of  discomfort,  but  oh, 
I  should  be  thankful  to  see  —  to  have  my  angel's  thought- 
ful face  before  me,  and  the  exquisite  world  in  which  he 
loved  to  help  me  to  realize  our  Creator's  love.  I  cannot 
describe  the  beauty  of  Dunkeld  ;  of  a  new  walk  Yi  and  I 
took  on  Friday  evening,  in  glades  between  the  Crieff  road 
and  river.  The  cones  are  wonderful  under  great  firs,  quite 
fresh  and  smooth  as  in  autumn.  They  always  remind  me 
of  my  Archie  and  Mary,  and  I  trust  October  will  find 
them  here  again,  to  pick  more  and  ramble  through  the 
woods.  I  had  seven  letters  yesterday,  and  expect  more 
to-day.  I  send  you  Mrs.  Blackie's;  is  she  not  kind  and 
generous  ?  Return  her  note,  I  shall  keep  it  for  days  of 
dark  discouragement,  such  as  come  to  us  all.  ...  I  am 
feeling  very  doubtful  as  to  the  publication  of  the  Memoir. 
He  was  so  retiring,  and  his  rest  is  to  me  so  sacred.  Yes- 
terday I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Lewes,  and  by  her  judgment  I  shall 
abide. 

[Mrs.  Lewes's  answer  was  favorable  to  publication.] 


"LOVE   OTHERS   TOO."  491 

To  Mrs.  Archibald  Constable.1 

DUNKELD,  May,  1875. 

This  is  a  good  day  with  the  eyes,  and  oh,  so  beautiful ! 
I  think  of  you  all  travelling,  and  perhaps  meeting  at 
sunny  Aberdovey.  I  set  out  with  dear  Vi  this  morning 
to  go  to  the  Spanish  chestnuts,  but  the  wind  turned  me 
back.  Struan,  after  a  little  indecision,  went  on  with  Vi. 
He  is  very  fond  of  her.  I  make  too  much  of  him,  and 
never  did  win  much  canine  devotion.  The  loveliness  was 
indescribable.  My  whole  soul  is  expressed  in  Tennyson's 
two  lines :  — 

Though  mixed  with  God  and  Nature  thou, 
I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 

And  how  this  love  and  sorrow  fill  and  exalt  life !  To  me 
they  are  better  than  anything  but  the  old  joy,  fulness  of 
joy  in  his  presence.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  new  light 
seems  to  break  on  my  soul. 

To  President  Porter. 

DUNKELD,  July  14,  1875. 

How  good  you  are  to  me  !  And  for  this  and  all  I  thank 
my  husband.  I  was  much  interested  in  those  records  of 
good  and  happy  lives  —  happy  in  spite  of  suffering  —  so 
peaceful  and  holy  in  their  close.  Most  deeply  do  I  feel 
with  you  a  sadness  and  a  regret  that  any  should  be  driven 
by  some  inexorable  logic  to  relinquish  that  hope  of  a  fur- 
ther growth  in  knowledge  and  in  harmony  with  the 
Supreme  Will,  which  gives  all  their  meaning  and  beauty 
to  such  lives.  I  know  indeed  that  one  with  Mrs.  Lewes's 
high  moral  sense  would  point  me  to  their  influence  on 
others ;  but  if  there  be  no  reality  corresponding  to  their 
own  dearest  convictions,  the  whole  universe  to  my  think- 
ing is  chaos,  for  then  delusion  is  stronger  for  good  than 
recognition  of  fact.  Oh,  I  cling  with  unspeakable  te- 
1  Formerly  Miss  Mary  Wrench. 


492  LUCY  SMITH. 

iiacity  to  the  trust  in  love  outliving  this  life.  I  cannot 
transmute  this  trust  into  joy,  as  more  sanguine  spirits  do, 
only  it  is  my  all.  I  can  indeed  see  that  there  is  a  sort  of 
sublimity  in  that  loose  hold  upon  personality,  that  con- 
tentment in  subserving  the  progress  of  others,  which  dis- 
tinguish that  gifted  woman  —  but  those  views  appall  me. 
And  though  a  few  natures  are  rare  enough  to  dispense 
with  what  to  others  is  intuition,  instinct,  yet  they  are 
abnormal,  I  think  —  at  all  events  they  cannot  help  the 
suffering.  If  she  lost  her  all,  could  she  bear  the  absolute 
separation?  I  think  not.  One  has  heard  and  read  so 
much  condemnation  of  Mr.  Mill's  posthumous  Essays,  but 
what  struck  me  most  was  the  admission  in  the  last  that 
in  the  hope  of  a  future  life  (which  to  some  can  only  be 
thought  of  as  further  love)  there  was  nothing  contrary  to 
reason.  What  a  step  that  was  for  him  to  take,  after  the 
long  mutilation  of  his  childhood  and  his  youth.  His  poor 
father  robbed  him  of  childhood  indeed.  I  wonder  whether 
a  book  entitled  "  The  Unseen  Universe  "  has  been  at  all 
cared  for  in  America.  It  has  interested  me,  but  less 
than  a  little  work,  "  A  Theologico-Political  Treatise r>  by 
George  D'Oyly  Snow,  whose  line  of  thought  is  much  the 
same  as  the  Duke  of  Argyll's  in  the  "  Contemporary  " 
for  this  month.  In  that  article  on  Animal  Instinct  there 
are  many  passages  which  have  brought  a  blessed  thrill  of 
hope  and  trust.  You  see  that  to  me  nothing  else  signi- 
fies. 

Lines  dated  Dunkeld,  September  20,  1875  :  — 

As  men  born  blind  must  ponder  upon  light, 

Deaf  men  on  sound,  though  pondering  seems  vain  ; 
Since  only  seeing  tells  the  joy  of  sight, 

And  hearing  only  music  can  explain  ; 

So  I,  Beloved,  must  needs  my  spirit  strain  — 
Long  as  endures  life's  dark  and  silent  night  — 

Some  image  of  a  future  bliss  to  gain. 


"LOVE   OTHERS   TOO."  493 

Knowledge  will  widen,  —  that  must  mean,  for  thee, 
God  clearer  seen  in  all  his  power  has  wrought ; 

And  oh,  my  thinker  !  still  more  bold  and  free 
The  range  and  energy  of  ceaseless  thought. 

High  hopes  are  these  ;  but  yet,  for  one  like  me, 
A  simple  image,  with  past  rapture  fraught, 

Seems  best  to  shadow  forth  what  Heaven  may  be. 

Our  life  had  days  and  years  most  glad  and  fair, 

Yet  one  joy  thrills  me  still  all  joys  above, 
Because  it  rose  on  an  almost  despair  — 

We  two  were  parted  ;  should  we  meet  ?    Oh,  Love  f 
I  did  not  dare  expect  you,  —  You. were  there! 

That  says  it  all  ;  and  dying  may  but  prove 
A  like  surprise,  and  give  me  strength  to  bear. 


To  Miss  Violetta  Smith. 

[1875.]  I  am  to  go  to  the  Infirmary  once  or  twice  a 
week.  I  was  there  yesterday  and  saw  a  sweet  young 
nurse,  who  will  let  me  know  what  day  suits.  I  heard  a 
visitor  reading  in  a  loud  quick  hard  voice  to  seven  women, 
one  very  weak  after  a  severe  operation,  a  commonplace 
tract,  telling  them  they  might  die  any  moment,  and  ask- 
ing them  what  would  become  of  them.  "  Which  should 
it  be,  Heaven  or  Hell  ?  Now  is  the  time  for  choice."  I 
told  the  nurse  that  style  of  ministration  was  horrible  to 
me  ;  that  if  I  went,  I  went  as  a  fellow-creature,  certainly 
inferior  in  power  of  bearing  pain,  lacking  that  consecra- 
tion as  regarded  bodily  pain  ;  went  not  to  teach,  but  if  it 
might  be  to  give  a  few  moments'  variety,  and  perhaps 
render  some  small  friendly  service,  —  take  a  message, 
write  a  letter,  supply  some  trivial  want.  The  young  wo- 
man plainly  understood  me. 

The  Saturday  visit  to  the  Infirmary  has  much  interest 
in  it.  The  men  are  so  glad  of  a  paper,  and  there  was  a 
quite  lovely  Highland  woman  for  whom  one  could  do  some 
small  service.  Yesterday  I  went  again,  taking  all  my 


494  LUCY 

Christmas  cards  for  them  to  look  at,  and  some  for  the 
Highland  woman  to  send  to  her  children  in  Ross-shire, 
and  I  have  little  commissions  for  some  of  them,  and  must 
return  on  Christmas  day.  I  sent  to  Mrs.  Dixon  for  holly 
from  dear  Borrowdale,  and  last  evening  it  came,  and 
Archie  went  off  with  it  at  once,  and  the  nice  nurse  was 
"  awfully  pleased  to  get  it,"  for  they  had  only  box,  and 
were  all  full  of  dressing  the  wards. 

Lines  dated  Edinburgh,  December  6,  1875 :  — 

WHAT   WAS. 

Only  a  burst  of  sunlight, 

To  shine  through  a  budding  tree, 
Only  leaf-stars  on  the  noontide  blue, 

Yet  a  thrill  of  ecstasy  ! 
And  this  is  the  spell  works  such  wonders,  Beloved  — 

JT  is  the  eyes  of  two  that  see. 

Only  the  fire-light  flicker 

On  our  plain  green  walls  at  play  ; 
And  we,  well  shut  in  by  storm  without, 

At  close  of  our  third  wet  day. 
"  Can  comfort,  can  cheeriness,  go  beyond  this  ?  " 

So  two  happy  voices  say. 

Only  the  same  sweet  life  — 

Nothing  startling,  strange,  and  new  ; 
But  we  find  fresh  meaning  and  delight 

In  the  smallest  thing  we  do  ; 
And  the  secret  of  this  we  have  long  agreed 

Is  that  everything 's  done  by  two. 

WHAT  IS. 

One  lonely  creature  dragging  thro'  her  life, 

Weeks  long  as  months,  and  months  stretched  out  to  years, 

Waging  with  sorrow  an  unending  strife, 

Counting  for  sweetest  solace,  unchecked  tears  ; 

All  impulse,  energy,  and  motive  gone, 

Nothing  on  earth  to  call  or  feel  her  own, 

Nothing  worth  doing,  since  't  is  done  alone. 


"I0FE   OTHERS   TOO."  495 

This  is  the  lot  of  one  of  that  glad  two  ! 

The  other's  lot  —  but  hope  grows  voiceless  here, 
Though  ever  straining  for  some  nearer  view 

Of  his  high  being  in  that  "  further  sphere  ; " 
And  pressing  to  her  heart,  thro*  sharpest  pain, 
The  thought  that  he  for  all  his  present  gain, 
Waits  for  the  hour  will  make  them  two  again. 


My  sorrow  is  my  throne! 

It  lifts  me  from  the  dust  of  earthly  care  ; 
'T  is  calm  and  peaceful,  though  so  cold  and  lone  — 

And  wider  prospects  stretch  before  me  there. 

My  sorrow  is  my  crown  ! 

A  glory  round  the  worn  and  aching  brow  ; 
I  would  not  lay  its  thorny  circlet  down 

For  any  flowers  earth  has  to  offer  now. 

Yet  sometimes  I  could  deem 

I  heard  his  voice,  loved  voice  that  guides  me,  say, 
"  The  earth  we  loved  must  never  trivial  seem, 

Although  our  joy  has  passed  from  earth  away. 

"  Go  down,  at  my  behest, 

The  smallest,  humblest,  kindly  task  to  do  ; 
/  see  the  thorn-prints  ;  hide  them  from  the  rest ; 

Because  thou  lov'st  me  so,  —  love  others  too." 


CHAPTEE  XXXII. 

NOT  AS  WITHOUT  HOPE. 

To  Lady  Eastlake. 

137  GEORGE  STREET,  EDINBURGH,  February  23,  1876. 
I  HAVE  just  laid  down  your  delightful  paper  on  the 
"  Two  Amperes,"  dearest  Lady  Eastlake,  and  I  want  so 
much  to  talk  with  you  about  it.  It  brings  me  into  such  a 
new  world  —  opens  out  such  fresh  vistas  of  what  life  may 
be  to  the  rarer  spirits  whose  full  development  has  been 
fostered  by  circumstances.  I  long  to  know  more  about 
Ballanche,  that  tender  faithful  soul  —  content  to  give  it- 
self away,  "  hoping  for  nothing  again."  I  am  so  struck 
with  all  you  say  about  the  "  Salon,"  and  its  necessary  con- 
ditions, which  indeed  can  never  be  found  here,  where  for 
the  most  part  speech  seems  an  effort,  a  struggle  —  seldom 
an  impulse  —  where  the  talk  is  known  to  be  dull  —  ac- 
cepted as  such  —  where  indeed  no  one  speaks,  as  the  birds 
sing,  from  some  sweet  constraint  of  joy  or  sorrow  —  where 
remark  after  remark,  like  a  damp  match,  amounts  to  a 
momentary  friction  —  hardly  a  spark,  and  lights  nothing. 
I  remember  indeed  in  the  living  days  long  talks  with  my 
husband  when  his  bright  thought  poured  out  freely  and 
gave  me  a  new  sense,  and  I  shall  never  forget  a  conver- 
sation between  him  and  Mrs.  Lewes  —  but  for  the  most 
part  I  have  never  lived  with  talkers.  Our  loved  friend 
[Mrs.  Jones]  used  to  take  such  delight  in  conversation, 
for  which  she  had  herself  every  requisite.  But  I  don't 
think  it  ever  occurred  to  me  that  it  was  a  thing  that  could 
be  cultivated.  No  doubt  Madame  Molil  is  right,  and 
something  should  be  done  early  in  life.  One  sentence  in 


NOT  AS  WITHOUT  HOPE.  497 

your  charming  paper  went  straight  to  my  heart :  "  Strength 
of  conviction,  not  so  much  intended  to  be  the  present  sup- 
port as  the  final  fruit  of  intense  mental  anguish."  It  is  a 
wise  and  profound  remark. 

The  winter  is  over.  It  has  been  as  peaceful  and  pleas- 
ant as  may  now  be.  These  dear  ones  are  all  one  could 
wish,  and  friends  very  kind.  I  have  recovered  the  power 
of  using  my  eyes  very  freely,  and  have  read  much. 
Theodore  Parker  I  often  find  helpful.  Sometimes  Past 
and  Future  seem  bright  —  at  all  events  the  trembling 
hope  is  felt  as  the  most  precious,  the  only  precious  thing. 

To  the  Rev.  Allan  Menzies. 

EDINBURGH,  1876. 

I  wonder  whether  you  know  Clodd's  little  books  for 
children,  "The  Childhood  of  the  World"  and  "of  Reli- 
gions." I  read  them  with  great  interest,  and  feel  perfect 
conviction  that  they  embody  the  truth,  the  real  facts,  as 
to  the  manner  of  growth  of  the  great  ideas  in  the  minds 
of  men.  Then  comes  that  aching  question  :  Is  this,  the 
last  word  of  the  highest  knowledge  and  most  earnest 
thought  of  the  present  day  —  is  this  to  be  outgrown  too, 
like  those  earlier  conceptions  ?  How  different  an  attitude 
the  most  religious  minds  of  the  day  (if  at  all  intelligent) 
must  take  from  that  of  a  St.  Bernard,  in  whose  mind  the 
idea  of  progress  of  the  race  had  never  dawned  :  or  even  of 
the  worthy  divines  of  thirty  years  ago,  who  believed  in  an 
immutable  form  of  spiritual  life.  Now,  we  suspect  that 
much  that  we  cling  to  still  may  be  left  behind.  The  good 
side  of  it  is  the  toleration.  And  one  does,  at  least  I  do, 
feel  quite  positive  as  to  what  has  become  to  me  simply 
unthinkable ;  and  however  vague  one's  ideas  may  be,  I 
am  sure  it  is  right  to  be  true,  and  not  to  pretend  to  enter- 
tain what  one  has  really  left  behind. 

Archie  bought  that  book  of  Theodore  Parker  that  I  saw 
at  Abernyte.  I  read  it  with  as  much  agreement  as  is 


498  LUCY  SMITH. 

possible.  But  his  was  a  remarkably  spiritual  nature. 
His  soul  was  attuned  for  the  highest  and  holiest.  Still, 
it  is  only  the  more  highly  gifted  that  help  the  lesser,  and 
the  poorest  of  us  is  God's  creature. 

I  like  to  hear  of  your  teaching.  I  sometimes  wish  I 
could  betake  myself  to  some  sick  ward  of  a  hospital,  and 
try  to  make  a  ten  minutes  easier  for  any.  But  I  dread 
moving  in  any  matter.  If  the  work  came  to  me,  I  would 
thankfully  do  what  I  could,  being  indeed  "  free  of  the 
guild  of  woe ;  "  but  the  work  would  come  if  I  were  better 
fitted  for  it.  I  think  with  Emerson  that  what  belongs  to 
us  "gravitates  toward  us." 

I  am  so  glad  you  have  Hobab.  That  dumb  affection  is 
often  a  great  comfort. 

To  Miss  Violetta  Smith, 

[1876.]  How  conversant  I  am  with  that  sense  of  the 
futility  of  one's  efforts  to  do  a  little  good!  I  do  so  un- 
derstand your  feeling  when  the  poor  soul  went  to  sleep ! 
However,  if  we  make  others  familiar  with  us,  a  time 
comes  when  we  are  of  such  use  as  for  the  most  part  one 
human  being  can  be  to  the  unrelated  lives  —  outside  our 
deepest  love.  I  shall  have  plenty  of  the  same  experience, 
now  that  I  have  undertaken  to  go  to  the  Infirmary.  It 
struck  me  as  such  a  pity  to  live  on  without  trying  to  give 
afflicted  ones  such  slight  variety  as  a  visit  from  a  fellow- 
creature  not  wanting  to  preach  might  give.  I  shall  take 
the  day's  paper  and  a  few  grapes,  and  though  I  don't  ex- 
pect to  feel  my  visits  of  any  use  or  even  conscious  comfort 
to  any  of  the  sufferers,  I  shall  try  to  go  on. 

Most  assuredly  I  know  well  what  you  mean  by  absence 
of  growth  in  many  excellent  people.  I  have  indeed  been 
accustomed  to  define  certain  acquaintances  as  young,  at 
whatever  age,  because  growing.  Some  people  cease  grow- 
ing quite  early,  have  no  power  of  liking  a  new  fact, 


NOT  AS   WITHOUT  HOPE.  499 

scarcely  a  new  book.  When  people  see  nothing  as  beau- 
tiful as  they  saw  in  their  early  days  for  instance,  it  is  a 
sign  that  they  are  no  longer  impressionable,  have  set  for 
once  and  all  into  a  definite  shape,  will  never  grow  from 
within  —  a  little  perhaps  from  accretion. 

For  the  matter  of  a  perfect  sincerity,  I  must  always 
think  it  of  great  moment  to  be  truthful,  and  never  to  seem 
to  like  much  what  we  in  point  of  fact  like  little.  But 
then  if  we  can  do  any  good  turn  to  any  one,  we  do  like 
them  for  that  very  reason  ;  and  there  are  relations  where 
friendliness  is  perhaps  Imperative.  In  theory  we  might 
debate  the  case  long ;  practically,  I  don't  think  there  is 
much  difficulty.  But  if  a  person  be  markedly  distasteful 
to  me,  I  think  it  most  probable  the  same  want  of  rapport 
affects  that  person  in  the  same  way,  and  I  do  not  feel  I 
am  depriving  such  a  one  of  any  pleasure  by  keeping  aloof. 
But  I  think  one  likes  almost  everybody  with  some  amount 
of  sincere  liking,  whether  admiration  or  compassion  or 
sympathy  prevails.  So  many  suffer  —  and  pity  is  closely 
akin  to  love.  It  is  only  untruthful  people  that  I  feel  any 
shrinking  from.  And  one's  benevolence  grows  in  propor- 
tion as  one  expects  and  even  wishes  no  return,  "  hoping 
for  nothing  again." 

PLAS  COCH,  LIANBEKIS,  WALES,  April  4,  1876. 
.  .  .  The  house  is  quite  unchanged,  and  we  are  in  the 
quiet  country.  Deep  snow  yesterday,  and  inexpressibly 
cold.  When  I  think  of  the  blessedness  I  have  known 
here,  and  how  all  that  I  loved  and  love,  in  the  one  abso- 
lute unqualified  sense,  lived  and  thought  his  high  thoughts 
in  this  room,  I  still  feel  a  glow  of  intense  feeling  almost 
like  happiness  I  I  am  sure,  dear  one,  I  don't  know  when 
I  did  write,  but  I  think  my  letter  to  Archie  must  have 
told  of  my  first  interview  with  dearest  Mr.  Carpenter.  I 
was  of  course  a  good  deal  with  my  Clara,  spent  Monday 


500  LUCY  SMITH. 

with  her  and  great  part  of  Tuesday.  Tuesday  evening  I 
saw  Dr.  Allen,  and  I  think  I  told  Archie  how  he  "  under- 
stood." I  was  minded  to  send  "  Gravenhurst  "  to  Dr.  Hil- 
bers,  whose  kindness  I  shall  never  forget,  and  I  'm  glad  1 
did.  Wednesday  brought  George  and  Effie  —  they  are  a 
dear  pair.  The  Aquarium,  enchanting  but  ill-ventilated 
place,  where  we  spent  two  hours ;  and  then  the  agitation  of 
witnessing  Mr.  Carpenter's  anguish  and  resignation  ;  and 
a  long,  late  walk  —  all  together  were  too  much.  Thursday 
I  could  hardly  look  up.  Friday  was  divided  between 
Augusta  and  Clara ;  Saturday  the  same,  Augusta  going 
with  me  to  our  Aome,  and  oh,  the 'tender  grace  with  which 
she  knelt  and  laid  her  offering  of  lily-of-the-valley  and 
forget-me-not  there  !  I  can't  tell  how  lovingly  I  admire 
her.  She  is  all  and  more  than  her  early  promise,  and  her 
life  a  romance.  How  she  is  admired  and  deferred  to  by 
men  of  all  ages,  and  women  are  equally  devoted.  People 
are  so  very,  very  kind  to  me  !  Sunday  brought  dear  An- 
nie Clough  in  the  morning ;  George  and  Clara  dined ; 
then  Augusta  came  and  walked  with  me  to  Mr.  Carpen- 
ter's, waiting  for  me.  The  blessed  old  man  gave  me  the 
enclosed.  Must  not  his  son  have  been  a  noble  compound  ? 
His  sailor  son  is  with  the  Challenger,  and  saved  a  life 
very  nobly  some  time  ago.  I  went  to  St.  Paul's  with  Au- 
gusta, and  the  day  was  a  busy  one. 

Monday  such  frantic  wind  and  rain  I  did  not  go  out. 
Spite  of  the  weather,  Clara  came  in  the  morning ;  then 
Augusta,  to  sing  to  me ;  and  while  she  was  there  Miss 
Thackeray  called  with  Eugenie's  dear  little  nieces.  Au- 
gusta, with  her  sweet  tact,  took  possession  of  the  chil- 
dren, and  Miss  Thackeray  and  I  spoke  out  of  our  hearts 
to  each  other.  She  is  very  dear,  and  simple  and  sweet 
as  gifted  people  are.  I  felt  it  an  interest  to  hear  her 
speak  of  her  father,  and  her  love,  intense  love,  for  him. 
What  with  letters  and  people  that  day  was  full ;  I  wrote  to 
several,  too.  We  came  off  on  Tuesday,  I  taking  a  most 


NOT  AS  WITHOUT  HOPE.  501 

beautiful  homeless  tabby  to  Miina.  How  well  he  trav- 
elled, purring  when  the  train  stopped,  and  never  moving 
till  we  got  to  Chester.  George  and  Clara  travelled  with 

us  to  Victoria.     Dear  Amy  G met  me  at  the  station 

—  I  fear  our  last  meeting  and  parting.  She  lifted  up  her 
voice,  and  what  she  called  me  !  all  that  his  wife  ought  to 
be.  Dearest  Mr.  Cotton  too  was  there,  all  love  and  kind- 
ness. Dear  Sophy  too  came,  and  when  we  departed  I 
thought  there  were  three  friends  who  would  tvfrn  to  each 
other  and  say  gracious  things  of  the  poor  "  mutilated  life  " 
once  so  blessed.  Altogether,  dear,  I  felt  the  last  three 
weeks  helpful.  It  was  such  an  atmosphere  of  glowing 
warmth  and  tenderness.  Augusta's  caring  for  me  touches 
me,  her  life  is  so  full.  Rebecca  was  all  true  sisterliness, 
and  did  many  a  sweet  little  turn.  You  know  how  warm 
a  welcome  Hessie  gave.  The  dear  puss  was  much  appre- 
ciated. It  was  a  good  thing  for  him  I  went  to  Brighton. 
Yesterday  Vi  and  I  were  off  early,  meaning  to  walk  to 
dear  Betty's,  but  there  was  kind  Jane  Browne  with  her 
vehicle,  and  we  got  driven  there.  Poor  Jane  had  much 
to  tell  me  of  her  husband's  beautiful  death.  .  .  .  She  was 
very  affectionate,  and  had  such  a  box  of  new-laid  eggs 
for  me.  It  was  most  kind  of  her  to  give  us  that  lift  to 
and  fro.  .  .  .  Nine  children  in  this  house,  and  the  hus- 
band smokes  inveterately  bad  tobacco !  I  don't  mind, 
though,  and  dear  Vi  will,  I  trust,  be  well  here. 

To  the  Rev.  Allan  Menzies. 

BRIGHTON,  April,  1876. 

I  think  of  you  this  bright  April  morning,  and  am  glad 
that  I  can  see  your  church,  with  its  attentive  congrega- 
tion, and  you  in  the  pulpit,  and  even  the  long-ladled  boxes 
for  the  collection,  all  so  clearly  in  my  mind's  eye.  I  have 
often  thought  of  you  since  we  last  met,  but  the  impulse  to 
write  grows  I  fear  feebler.  I  do  not,  however,  mean  to 
resign  myself  passively  to  this.  I  notice  as  years  go  on 


502  LUCY  SMITH. 

people  have  a  very  general  tendency  to  leave  off  letter 
writing.  This  must  show  a  little  deadening  and  narrow- 
ing of  sympathy,  and  tends  to  increase  it.  One  must  fight 
it  tooth  and  nail.  To  me  throughout  life  it  has  been  a 
great  interest  to  receive  letters,  and  that  's  not  to  be  had 
without  writing  them.  And  even  now  they  help  me  much, 
and  when  some  heart  has  poured  itself  out  to  me  thus,  I 
am  stronger  all  the  day  through.  ...  I  am  sending  you 
a  paper  thkt  has  interested  me,  but  probably  to  you  the 
train  of  thought  may  have  no  novelty.  I  remember  that 
during  the  last  winter  my  husband  was  looking  over 
Feuerbach,  and  one  day  said,  "  It  prompts  a  reaction." 
The  suffering  of  animals  does  weigh  terribly  on  many 
minds,  but  perhaps  there  is  necessity  in  existence  of  any 
kind  to  include  pain,  and  one  ventures  to  hope  that  in 
them  pleasure  far  exceeds.  Of  course  I  dissent  strongly 
from  the  clause  at  the  end  of  page  14.  I  need  no  "  dia- 
bolic essence "  to  quicken  conscience.  I  can  believe  in 
evil  as  the  element  which  is  always  being  revealed  by 
higher  knowledge,  and  the  resisting  of  which  is  growth 
and  life.  But  it  is  all  very  interesting  and  ingenious. 
Did  you  ever  see  Ruskin's  "  Fors  Clavigera "  ?  The 
humour  and  the  madness  and  the  wisdom  make  them  a 
unique  compound. 

PLAS  COCH,  LLANBERIS,  May  6,  1876. 

...  It  came  across  me  the  other  night,  driving  by 
moonlight  through  this  grand  and  solemn  Pass,  that  one 
might  read  those  words,  "  Sorrow  not  even  as  others  that 
have  no  hope,"  in  an  inverse  sense  to  the  generally  re- 
ceived. "  Sorrow  not  less,  but  more  !  You  who  have  hope 
need  not  fear  to  fathom  the  unfathomableness  of  your 
earthly  loss.  You  who  have  hope  need  never  seek  to  get 
rid  of  your  sacred  Sorrow.  You  may  safely  receive  her, 
a  life-long  inmate  of  your  inmost  heart.  There  she  will 
dwell,  suffering  nothing  low  or  worldly  to  dwell  with  her. 
Sorrow  greatly,  abidingly,  consciously,  thankfully  —  you 
who  have  hope !  " 


NOT  AS  WITHOUT  HOPE.  503 

PLAS  COCH,  LIANBEBIS,  May  20,  1876. 

I  write  to  you,  dear  Mr.  Menzies,  less  for  any  definite 
reason,  such  as  thanking  you  for  your  very  valuable  de- 
scription of  Seathwaite  might  afford,  than  from  a  restless 
misery  which  has  oppressed  me  ever  since  I  received  the 
enclosed  note  yesterday.  It  brought  back  the  very  worst 
phases  of  the  sorrow  which  of  late  has  been  growing  gen- 
tler and  more  lit  up  by  hope.  Mr.  M is  I  am  sure 

a  man  of  fine  intellect  and  tenderly  affectionate  nature, 
and  the  renunciation  of  the  great  idea  of  continued  life 
gives  him  pain.  But  he  is  renouncing  it.  Is  it  some 
"  cowardly  shrinking  "  on  my  own  part  from  a  growing 
conviction  that  makes  me  suffer  so  acutely  ?  If  my  own 
convictions  were  firmer,  should  I  be  thus  vulnerable  ?  I 
have  read  that  article  in  the  "  Contemporary,"  but  it  does 
not  shake  my  belief  in  a  Power  manifesting  itself  in 
Humanity,  but  even  to  the  consciousness  of  Humanity 
manifesting  itself  in  many  other  ways.  The  instinctive 
tendency  to  worship  can  never,  to  my  mind,  find  its  ade- 
quate object  in  the  progressive  race  of  which  each  one  of 
us  is  a  fraction.  I  feel  that  these  words  of  my  husband 
are  reasonable :  "  Religion  undoubtedly  means  more  than 
a  belief  in  God,  but  it  means  this  first  of  all.  Our  cate^ 
chism  tells  us  that  it  includes  love  to  our  neighbour, 
and  philosophers  tell  us  that  it  binds  society  together  ;  but 
it  binds  society  together  and  cultivates  our  social  affec- 
tions by  the  aid  of  those  sentiments  that  spring  from  the 
relation  between  the  creature  and  the  Creator."  On  that 
head  I  cannot  understand  Positivism  being  irresistible. 
Humanity  has  been  evolved  into  fuller  perception  of  the 
beauties  of  this  little  world,  of  the  glories  and  laws  of  the 
starry  heavens,  but  it  has  not  itself  to  thank  for  the  deli- 
cate beauty  of  the  tiniest  moss,  and  something  in  its  na- 
ture "  claims  kinship  with  the  stars."  We  must  adore 
something  that  embraces  Humanity  and  muck  more. 
Define  we  cannot.  Is  your  life  too  busy  a  one  for  any 


504  LUCY  SMITH. 

anguish  of  this  vain  endeavour?  And  why  should  Pos- 
itivism be  found  "  irresistible  "  on  that  other  subject  of 
continuity  of  life?  The  more  we  think  and  know,  the 
greater  our  perception  of  our  individual  life  as  part  of  a 
whole  ;  that  was  never  I  think  more  constantly  put  out 
than  by  my  own  teacher  and  guide.  Do  you  remember 
that  passage  in  "  Thorndale,"  chapter  3  :  "  But  in  thy 
hands,  O  Rhadamanthus,  judge  of  the  dead,  what  is  this 
solitary  soul  ?  "  1  —  one  passage  amongst  many.  The  very 
word  "  solidarity "  is  but  a  recently  adopted  one  among 
us,  but  the  fact  had  been  very  early  dwelt  on  by  him.  It 
seems  to  me  that  man  as  he  progresses  is  less  under  the 
tyranny  of  this  solidarity,  no  longer  liable  to  that  conta- 
gion of  the  imagination  that  rendered  possible  many  of  the 
epidemics  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Such  phenomena  as  the 
dancing  madness,  etc.,  are  hardly  possible  in  our  civiliza- 
tion ;  though  indeed  Irvingism  and  speaking  with  tongues, 
to  say  nothing  of  Moody-and-Sankeyism,  should  make  us 
hesitate  in  saying  this.  However,  on  the  whole,  the  indi- 
vidual does  seem  in  proportion  to  his  scientific  knowledge 
to  be,  so  to  speak,  more  self-contained,  practically  more 
individual,  while  he  realizes  increasingly  his  dependence 
upon  the  past  for  all  that  he  is  now,  and  that  he  has  no 
life  except  as  part  of  an  "  organic  whole."  But  this  only 
enlarges  our  sense  of  personality.  There  is  no  contradic- 
tion between  the  two  facts,  as  we  apprehend  them  now. 
Why  may  not  this  dualism,  so  to  say,  of  knowing  our- 
selves as  a  part,  and  feeling  ourselves  "  rounded  to  a  sep- 
arate soul,"  endure  ?  I  cannot  think  the  instincts  of  the 
race  have  deceived  it  up  to  this  present  time,  and  that  man 
is  to  grow  satisfied  with  the  perception  of  one  of  these 
truths.  But  I  do  think  this  Religion  of  Humanity  is  a 
great  reaction  from  the  mere  Theology  that  has  been  so 
long  taught,  and  that  the  renunciation  by  so  many  men  of 
high  intelligence  of  the  thought  of  immortality  is  a  violent 
1  See  page  198. 


NOT  AS  WITHOUT  HOPE.  505 

protest  against  the  hideous  dogma  of  eternally  tortured 
beings.  I  suffer  so !  All  these  subjects  are  for  me 
steeped  in  my  heart's  blood.  You  see  it  was,  it  is,  no 
ordinary  love  that  bears  this  doom  of  separation.  He  in- 
spired a  quite  different  feeling,  even  in  his  nieces,  even  in 
people  who  knew  him  but  little.  If  I  did  not  believe  — 
hope  —  think  abidingly  —  that  he  lives  in  God,  as  we  live 
in  God,  my  own  life  would  be  utterly  hideous  and  un- 
bearable to  me.  My  love  for  him  grows  and  grows.  You 
see  I  owe  to  him  such  a  vivid  life,  vivid  joy.  His  very 
presence  was  fulness  of  joy.  During  those  years  I  crossed 
the  room  on  the  most  trivial  errand  with  something  of  the 
freedom  and  ecstasy  of  flight.  All  things  were  intensi- 
fied, had  boundless  meaning,  fragrance,  were  outlets  "  into 
infinity."  I  have  said  to  him,  not  knowing  what  I  said, 
on  my  Mount  Tabor,  "  This  is  Eternity ! "  If  I  have 
hope  (I  do  not  need  to  define  our  reunion,  any  more  than 
the  nature  of  God)  the  love  strengthens  me  to  try  and 
purify  myself  even  as  he  is  pure.  If  not !  This  letter  is 
just  a  cry.  If  you  have  any  strong  conviction,  strong  need 
to  hope,  tell  me  anything  sustaining.  Is  Mr.  Stevenson 
an  on-looker,  or  satisfied  with  just  our  present  knowing  in 
part?  I  cannot  go  for  my  faith  to  the  Bible,  and  indeed 
on  this  subject  it  holds  very  little  ;  but  the  divinest  char- 
acter we  know  of  had  this  assumption  of  higher  life,  un- 
derlying all  the  morality  he  taught.  To-day  I  cannot 
turn  to  any  other  subject. 

PLAS  COCH,  June.  18,  1876. 

It  was  good  and  kind  of  you,  dear  Mr.  Menzies,  to  think 
about  me  and  to  write  to  me  again.  Your  letters  are  al- 
ways very  welcome.  The  intolerable  pressure  of  hopeless- 
ness —  which  I  seemed  rather  to  foresee  than  to  feel,  but 
its  cold  shadow  withers  up  the  life  —  did  not  last  long. 
I  will  not  to-day  touch  upon  the  subject  from  the  stand- 
point of  thought.  I  have  been  thinking  intensely,  as  the 
solitary  can,  all  the  morning,  and  turn  to  my  letters  for 


506  LUCY  SMITH. 

the  relief  that  society  gives.  But  I  will  just  write  down 
lines  that  gushed  from  my  heart  the  other  evening,  and 
which  will  tell  you  how  it  has  been  with  me  of  late. 

On  one  of  the  spurs  of  Snowdon :  June  2. 

My  angel  out  of  sight,  how  could  I  bear 

The  sunset  glory  of  this  summer  eve, 

When  all  the  hills  their  purplest  shadows  wear, 

And  all  the  clouds  their  rosiest  hues  receive,  — 

How  could  I  bear  it,  did  I  not  believe 

Thy  present  sphere  is  yet  more  perfect  and  more  fair. 

Oh,  but  that  deep  down  in  my  secret  heart 
Such  trust  all  fear  and  doubting  underlies, 
Glories  like  these,  in  which  thou  hast  no  part, 
What  could  they  be  but  torture  to  my  eyes  ? 
Better  the  dreariest  scene,  the  darkest  skies, 
Better  no  more  to  be  —  if  thou  no  longer  art. 

But  since,  Beloved,  while  I  sit  and  gaze 

Upon  the  pageant  of  the  earth  and  sky, 

My  heart  still  throbs  with  thankfulness  and  praise, 

For  what  thou  lovedst  in  our  days  gone  by, 

I  know  thou  must  be  living  —  life  more  high, 

Seeing  and  serving  God  in  nearer,  nobler  ways. 

And  so  it  is.  My  love  grows  ever  more  and  more,  is 
all  my  personal  life.  How  could  I  live  did  I  not  hope  ? 
But  he  would  say,  "  Turn  to  other  subjects." 

I  am  glad  you  saw  my  ideal  of  young  womanhood, 

Augusta  S ,  and  wish  you  had  had  more  talk  with 

her.  Her  face  is  fraught  with  intellect  and  feeling ;  and 
every  movement  is  so  graceful  it  makes  one  say  what 
Florimel  said  to  Perdita  —  which  I  might  misquote,  and 
which  you  know,  so  I  won't  get  up  for  my  Shakespeare. 
She  and  I  had  not  met  for  ten  years  till  we  met  last 
March,  and  the  interval  we  found  had  but  drawn  us 
nearer. 


NOT  AS  WITHOUT  HOPE.  507 

To  a  Friend. 

It  is  my  hope  that  you  will  make  in new  and  con- 
genial friends.  You  must  learn  to  take  the  initiative. 
You  are  a  very  bright  darling,  and  if  you  would  only  give 
yourself  the  rein,  many  that  you  think  dry  and  unsympa- 
thetic would  be  far  more  genial  and  pleased  than  you 
suppose.  It  is  no  one's  fault  —  it  is  the  merest  trifles  that 
seem  to  isolate.  If  you  were  stronger  in  health,  you  would 
not  feel  these  chills.  Augusta  has  quoted  such  an  excel- 
lent saying  of  mine  (! !)  that  I  must  give  you  the  benefit 
of  it.  It  seems  that  when  she  went  to  Edinburgh,  I,  in- 
troducing her  to  some  friends,  said,  "  You  must  mix  up  a 
good  deal  of  yourself  with  them,  and  then  you  will  thor- 
oughly like  them  !  "  Oh,  my  dear  one,  act  upon  that ! 

To  Mr.  Thomas  Constable. 

PLAS  COCH,  May  29,  1876. 

...  I  think  you  know  that  I  am  going  to  stay  here  for 
the  summer.  I  hope  in  one  way  or  other  to  be  able  to  do 
this,  even  if  the  Khedive  be  finally  ruined  by  the  stock- 
jobbing crew  —  the  worst  offenders  of  our  modern  days, 
"  spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban,"  for  the  poor  return 
of  personal  wealth.  However,  they  have  their  functions  no 
doubt,  like  vultures  and  other  ravagers,  and  they  must 
have  a  hard  time  of  it  too,  and  lose  much  that  is  "  free  to 
the  poorest  comer."  ...  I  wish  I  had  seen  that  notice  in 
the  "  Guardian  "  of  "  Gravenhurst,"  from  which  I  see  a 
pleasant  passage  extracted.  That  "  step  so  light  yet  firm  " 
was  characteristic  of  the  man  as  well  as  the  author.  The 
personality  touched  one  as  lightly  as  does  a  sunbeam, 
but  it  colored  all  one's  world  and  raised  the  spirit's  tem- 
perature. The  majority  have  a  heavy,  opaque  personality, 
mere  resistance  to  another  self.  .  .  .  These  mountains  are 
better  than  most  things  —  and  how  the  birds  sing! 
Archie  has  lent  me  helpful,  thoughtful  books  —  not  that  I 


508  LUCY  SMITH. 

can  go  far  with  them,  but  they  give  one  strength  to  reach 
a  point  where  if  the  ways  fork  one  sees  't  is  to  meet  again 
at  the  end. 

To  Mrs.  A.  Constable. 

PLAS  COCH,  July  20,  1876. 

.  .  .  Now  I  must  tell  you  of  the  past  week.  Do  you 
know,  I  can  quite  believe  that  solitude  might  grow  to  be 
one's  consciously  best  time?  Only  one  would  want  a 
wider  range  of  books.  Every  evening  I  wandered  in 
lovely  places.  On  the  fourteenth,  the  day  William  came 
to  Patterdale,  I  sat  long  on  a  green  hill  we  loved,  saw  the 
shining  sea  on  one  hand,  Snowdon  on  the  other,  glowing 
like  molten  iron  in  the  sunset,  near  me  the  peaceful  sheep, 
overhead  plovers  —  all  so  peaceful,  so  like  the  past.  And 
there  I  sat,  and  read  his  letters,  and  thanked  God  for  my 
creation.  No  companionship  can  ever  give  me  such  in- 
tense feeling  as  these  lonely  hours.  But  variety  is  no 
doubt  good  for  one ;  prevents  one's  getting,  as  one  easily 
might,  exclusive ;  and  that  very  intensity  of  agony  and 
rapture  requires  to  be  rested  from.  Indeed  I  feel,  con- 
trasting myself  as  I  am  with  others  and  as  I  am  there, 
alone  with  him,  that  with  very  little  exaggeration  I  might 
say  "  whether  in  the  body  or  out  of  the  body  I  cannot 
tell."  Looking  back  through  the  empty  years,  a  few  such 
evenings  of  sunset  glow,  in  the  sky  and  in  my  soul,  stand 
out  as  the  only  intervals  of  life  in  the  old  sense.  But 
then,  there  are  the  dark  hours,  and  the  weary  eyes,  and 
the  eating  in  of  the  un uttered  thoughts  ;  and  I  am  thankful 
for  the  intervals  of  human  fellowship,  and  quite  sure,  my 
darlings,  that  it  will  be  far  better  for  me  to  winter  with 
you  than  anywhere  else ;  though  I  would  not  have  your 
plans  inconveniently  modified,  the  more  so  that  I  feel  I 
shall  be  110  advantage  in  a  pecuniary  sense,  or  enable  you 
to  have  better  rooms  this  winter.  This  summer  I  have 
.£45  less  than  usual,  but  then  I  am  spending  less  —  only 


NOT  AS  WITHOUT  HOPE.  509 

twenty-five  shillings  for  the  rooms,  and  very  little  for  eat- 
ing. Every  week  that  comes  round,  I  have  to  put  some- 
thing in  Mrs.  Williams's  bill,  and  this  little  fight,  in  which 
I  always  prevail,  keeps  up  a  delusion  of  being  rather  rich 
than  otherwise.  She  is  a  nice  little  woman,  so  obliging 
and  kindly ;  and  as  to  a  little  moulding  of  facts  to  make 
them  fit  in,  that  does  not  offend  me.  The  girl  Elizabeth 
is  so  pretty  that  I  quite  overlook  her  want  of  head,  and  she 
is  such  a  gentle,  timid  creature  that  one  can  say  anything. 
I  have  had  a  feeling  of  their  being  fond  of  me,  if  you  will 
excuse  my  saying  so,  and  was  therefore  glad  to  be  told  by 

Miss  D that  Mrs.  Williams  said  "  I  was  an  angel  "  ! 

I  wonder  why,  considering  that  the  only  notice  I  ever  take 
of  her  eight  children  is  to  beg  to  have  them  silenced. 

Miss  D called  on  Saturday.     She  is  singularly  kind, 

with  that  generous  kindness  that  likes  to  dwell  upon  the 
possessions  of  others.  She  seems  to  take  a  positive  pleas- 
ure in  dwelling  upon  the  bliss  that  was  mine,  and  that  she 
firmly  believes  will  be  again.  I  think  her  an  admirable 
woman.  I  know  few  who  are  so  easy  and  satisfactory  to 
talk  with,  "  quick  at  the  uptak',' '  and  with  a  courtesy  that 
is  flattering.  On  Saturday  afternoon  I  had  a  telegram 
from  the  dear  sailor,  and  he  came  by  the  ten  train,  but 
went  first  to  the  hotel  to  shake  off  his  dustiness  and  order 
his  room.  He  was  in  such  good  looks.  The  beautiful 
white  teeth  light  up  his  grave  and  rather  reluctant  smile. 
I  could  fancy  his  having  had  some  singular  experiences. 
He  sees  so  much  of  reckless,  desperate  life  on  the  coast  of 
Peru,  lives  so  much  where  you  must  carry  your  revolver 
and  are  likely  enough  to  witness  an  assassination,  that  he 
must  take  a  wider  view  of  human  nature  than  those  who 
live  in  decencies  forever.  Yet  one  would  stake  something 
worthier  than  one's  life  upon  his  uprightness  and  purity. 
He  is  a  man  you  could  go  with  anywhere,  sure  of  his  cool 
courage.  You  remember  how  years  ago  I  was  supported 
by  his  sitting  upon  the  gunwale  of  the  boat  that  tossed  us 


510  LUCY  SMITH. 

a  mile  from  shore  to  the  packet.  He  is  a  good  listener^ 
and  if  the  sentiment  chances  to  be  one  he  feels  but  could 
not  express,  endorses  it  emphatically.  I  felt  we  were  en 
rapport,  but  he  is  not  a  talker ;  considers  it  probably  very 
immaterial  what  he  thinks  or  does  not  think,  —  an  acci- 
dent not  affecting  in  any  perceptible  degree  the  course  of 
events.  He  thinks  marriage  such  a  fearful  risk ;  said,  half 
to  himself,  "  Now  there  was  my  uncle ;  I  don't  suppose 
one  woman  in  a  million  would  have  suited  him."  He  has 
evidently  a  deep  feeling  about  his  uncle.  As  I  sat  with 
him  in  the  sweetest  nooks  of  a  brook  on  Sunday,  and 
showed  him  the  English  wild  flowers,  unfamiliar  to  his  eyes 
(he  has  been  at  sea  since  the  age  of  fifteen),  oh,  how  I 
wished  for  him  the  joy  I  felt,  we  felt,  together !  He  is 
affectionate  to  his  own  family,  and  adored  by  them,  and 
tenderly  devoted  to  his  father.  We  were  out  all  the  morn- 
ing, despite  the  heat ;  and  in  the  evening  I  took  him  a 
drive,  and  we  walked  to  the  lakes  below  Snowdon ;  and 
when  he  went  away  I  had  an  odd  feeling  of  having  been 
cdive,  such  as  I  often  have  after  dreams.  I  have  a  strange 
affection  for  him,  a  little  fear  of  tiring  him,  a  sense  that 
there  is  in  him  much  that  is  unfathomed,  and  a  feeling 
that  his  uncle  likes  our  being  together.  He  talks  of  send- 
ing me  a  chinchilla.  Think  what  a  darling!  He  de- 
scribed the  feel  of  it  as  of  a  "  handful  of  smoke."  It  is 
quite  gentle  and  tame.  I  have  scruples  about  taking  it, 
they  are  so  seldom  brought  alive  to  this  country.  It 
would  be  a  great  responsibility.  Of  course  it  likes  warmth, 
and  in  Edinburgh  it  would  have  to  live  always  near  the 
fire.  It  has  a  cage,  but  would  gladly  come  out  and  run 
about,  only  it  nibbles,  like  a  squirrel.  I  am  sure  Archie 
would  like  it.  I  don't  know  whether  it  will  come  or  not, 
and  don't  know  what  to  wish.  It  must  be  an  exquisite 
creature.  There  is  no  trouble  with  it ;  it  eats  any  green 
thing  or  any  fruit,  apple  or  apple-paring.  Tell  me  how 
you  will  feel  if  I  announce  that  I  have  got  it. 


NOT  AS  WITHOUT  HOPE.  511 

The  Miss  D referred  to  in  this  letter  writes  of  her 

friend  as  follows :  — 

"  My  idea  and  remembrance  of  her  is  contained  in  one 
short  sentence  —  the  noblest,  most  thoroughly  noble 
woman  I  ever  knew,  and  the  most  humble  and  sympathiz- 
ing —  utterly  unselfish.  I  mean  by  humble  the  uncon- 
sciousness she  showed  of  her  own  gifts  and  attainments, 
in  her  intercourse  with  the  less  gifted.  And  she  had  that 
rare  and  sacred  gift,  the  power  to  wake  the  best  in  every 
one,  and  send  them  away  feeling  old  energies  revived,  old 
hopes  quickened,  the  world  not  all  dry  and  desolate  since 
it  still  held  so  gracious  a  presence,  so  full  a  sympathy.  Of 
her  great  mental  gifts  others  are  better  fitted  to  speak, 
but  to  me  it  was  the  heart,  the  spirit,  the  tone,  which 
blessed  five  years  only  of  my  life,  but  changed  it,  and  is 
now  a  part  of  it,  though  she  has  been  lost  to  us  outwardly 
for  six  years.  You  know  something  of  what  she  was  to 
me,  but  only  I  know  the  depth  and  extent  of  her  influ- 
ence and  help,  or  how  entirely  she  was  a  '  light  in  a  star- 
less night '  to  me.  Well  I  remember  the  first  meeting  — 
coming  out  of  the  little  Welsh  church  one  evening,  and 
seeing  her  sitting  in  the  porch,  listening  to  4  the  sweet 
Welsh  hymn,'  as  she  said  when  I  held  the  door  open 
(thinking  she  was  going  in  to  hear  the  sermon,  not  know- 
ing who  she  was  —  I  was  leaving  before  the  sermon,  as  it 
was  the  Welsh  service  that  evening).  Then  she  rose  and 
walked  in  my  direction,  and  even  in  that  short  walk  I 
began  to  know  what  she  was.  A  day  or  two  after  she 
came  to  see  me,  and  then,  until  she  left,  I  saw  her  only 
seven  times  altogether.  Then  the  dear  letters  —  and 
then,  the  end. 

"Two  of  these  meetings  espBcially  remain  as  pictures 
in  my  memory.  Once,  she  was  sitting  on  a  grassy  slope 
near  the  church,  looking  toward  the  Lake  and  Snowdon, 
with  such  a  look  in  the  beautiful  dark  eyes  —  not  suffer- 
ing exactly,  the  word  '  pathetic  '  suits  it  better  —  and 


512  LUCY  SMITH. 

her  smile  that  evening  I  can  see  now.  The  other  vision 
of  her  is  yet  more  vivid.  She  and  Edith  had  been  at 
Mount  Hazel  by  the  seashore,  where  she  and  her  husband 
once  lived  ;  and  in  the  twilight  she  came  in  on  her  way 
home  to  give  me  a  white  pebble  and  seaweed  from  the 
beach.  Her  dear  eyes  were  full  of  light,  and  her  cheek 
flushed,  and  her  black  veil  had  the  dew  of  the  autumn 
evening  upon  it ;  and  she  spoke  a  few  sweet  words  about 
the  old  life  there,  and  of  still  knowing  he  was  near  her  — 
4  my  dearest  out  of  sight.' 

"  Was  ever  sorrow  so  unselfish  as  hers !  It  never 
closed  her  heart  to  that  of  others,  —  who,  if  I  may  judge 
by  my  own  feeling,  looked  upon  her  as  one  guarded,  set 
apart,  by  her  sacred  grief,  from  intrusion  of  theirs.  But 
she  drew  it  out  by  her  magic  sympathy,  and  then  came 
the  flow  of  wise,  helping,  raising  encouragement.  Many 
more  than  will  ever  be  fully  known  in  this  world  owe  the 
restoration  of  life  and  hope  to  her,  in  her  own  widowhood 
and  loss  of  personal  happiness  —  if  indeed  that  is  a  true 
description  of  the  dear  heart  which  felt  as  its  own  the 
joy  of  those  she  loved.  And  then  the  thought  for  her 
friends  —  the  exquisite  work  she  would  adorn  their  houses 
with !  Even  during  a  few  day's  stay  in  London,  she 
would  find  time  for  copying  a  beautiful  design  in  needle- 
work for  a  country  cottage.  Oh,  to  be  more  like  her, 
not  only  to  admire  and  reverence  !  " 

To  Mrs.  Lorimer. 

PLAS  COCH,  LLANBERIS,  July  31,  1876. 
...  I  have  a  very  early  friend  with  me,  have  had  for 

a  fortnight,  Sophy  L .     Her  sister,  one  of  the  loved 

band  out  of  sight  now,  was  especially  dear  to  me,  but  this 
is  a  precious  friendship  so  old  and  so  familiar.  She  was 
a  shy  child  of  twelve  and  a  half,  I  a  girl  of  fifteen,  when 
we  first  knew  each  other,  and  though  we  have  not  been 
much  together  of  late  years  there  is  a  perfect  ease  and 


NOT  AS  WITHOUT  HOPE.  513 

confidence  between  us,  not  the  necessity  for  any  effort 
or  restraint.  Dear  Sophy  is  a  very  sweet,  gentle,  high- 
minded  woman,  a  beauty  for  her  age,  and  so  graceful  I 
like  to  watch  her.  She  paid  us  three  visits  in  the  days  of 
my  life,  and  William  liked  and  admired  her  very  much, 
and  then  she  had  a  most  beautiful  voice.  .  .  .  This  day 
week  she  and  I  walked  up  Snowdon  and  back,  taking- 
it  quietly  and  seeing  glorious  views  of  far  and  near,  the 
Wicklow  mountains  being  indigo  blue  over  a  bright  blue 
sea,  —  till  we  arrived  at  the  hut  at  the  top.  A  high  wind 
suddenly  sprang  up,  and  gravel  and  dust  flew  blindingly 
about,  and  then  white  clouds  came  up  rapidly  from  the 
north,  and  swept  the  lower  hills,  and  rose  till  they  swal- 
lowed us  up,  and  we  really  thought  we  should  have  to 
sleep  there.  A  tourist  with  an  excellent  countenance 
said,  "  This  is  the  very  time  for  a  sing"  and  as  we  all 
cowered  around  the  fire  and  the  wind  rattled  our  shelter- 
ing hut,  he  took  Moody  and  Sankey's  little  volume  of 
hymns  out  of  his  pocket,  and  struck  up  spirited  airs, 
"  Hold  the  Fort,"  and  many  others,  all  new  to  me  ;  not 
so,  however,  to  some  of  the  guides,  who  chimed  in  —  and 
though  one  would  no  longer  have  put  one's  deepest  hopes 
into  the  same  words,  still  there  was  a  power  and  sweet- 
ness too  in  the  hymns ;  and  I  felt  my  enmity  to  those 
evangelists  greatly  modified.  When  the  wind  lulled, 
Sophy  and  I  marched  off  into  the  mist,  for  the  path  was 
good,  and  there  was  light  enough  for  the  next  step,  and 
we  got  back  at  ten,  not  overdone,  and  drawn  the  closer  by 
the  experience.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  the  old  life  seems 
to  reanimate  me  on  the  mountains,  when  seeing  the 
splendours  seen  and  loved  by  him,  —  when  he  looked  at 
the  earth  and  sky,  and  I  saw  their  beauty  best  in  his  de- 
light. 

I  liked  Lord  Shaftesbury's  speech  on  the  Eastern  ques- 
tion, and  his  declaration  that  he  would  rather  have  the 
Russians  than  the  Turks  at  Constantinople.  I  think  pub- 


514  LUCY  SMITH. 

lie  opinion  will  grow  strong  in  that  direction,  and  shake 
off  the  ally  of  the  past  with  horror ;  not  because  he  is 
Mohammedan,  but  because  driven  to  such  cruel  warfare, 
and  guilty  of  incapacity  to  control  the  savage  hordes  that 
eke  out  his  army. 

To  Mr.  Archibald  Constable. 

PLAS  COCH,  Sept.  17,  1876. 

I  know  my  kind  Archie  will  like  to  know  that  Fiske 
came  at  the  very  moment  I  wanted  just  that  sort  of  read- 
ing. I  was  so  worn  out  I  staid  in  bed  for  breakfast,  and 
rested  myself  with  those  grand  attainments  to  scientific 
facts  —  with  which  we  blend,  which  give  us  the  energy 
and  the  impulse  to  blend,  high  hopes  and  the  sweet  trust- 
fulness of  "  infants  crying  in  the  night,"  "  knowing  a 
father  near."  I  want  my  darling  Mary  to  have  some  of 
this  excitement.  I  do  believe  that  just  the  effort,  the  up- 
ward gazing  after  those  who  soar,  is  more  favourable  to 
health  than  any  drug.  Bromide  is  the  fashionable  mis- 
chief just  now,  and  I  believe  very  deleterious.  It 's  all 
guess-work  as  yet,  and  doctors  have  not  got  beyond  sub- 
stituting one  complaint,  one  abnormal  condition,  for  an- 
other. Such  is  my  firm  belief. 

THE  MORE  EXCELLENT  WAY. 

"  To  love  is  the  great  glory,  the  last  culture,  the  highest  happiness  ;  to  be 
loved  is  little  in  comparison."  —  WILLIAM  SMITH,  Gravenhurst. 

Yes,  the  love  that  we  get  is  a  joy  and  a  power  — 

'T  is  as  rain  to  the  deep-thirsting  root  ; 
As  the  sun-light  to  open  and  colour  the  flower  ; 

As  the  sun- warmth  to  ripen  the  fruit. 
We  will  hail  it  and  prize  it  so  long  as  we  live  ; 
But  the  life  of  the  soul  is  the  love  that  we  give. 

If  the  root  underground  be  worm-stricken  and  dry, 
If  the  flower  have  all  withered  away  — 


NOT  AS  WITHOUT  HOPE.  515 

What  avails  that  the  soft  rain  still  falls  from  the  sky 

Or  bright  sunbeams  be  still  at  their  play  ? 
But  from  darkness  and  drought  we  may  suffer,  yet  live  ; 
For  the  life  of  the  soul  is  the  love  that  we  give. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

LED  ONWARD. 

"  I  CAN  vividly  recall  the  feeling,"  writes  Mrs.  Emily 
Pfeiffer,  "  with  which  in  the  summer  of  the  year  1875  I 
read  the  letter  in  a  then  unknown  hand  which  now  lies  be- 
fore me,  telling  of  the  sympathy  and  trust  which  rny  writ- 
ings had  won  for  me  from  a  soul  '  too  stricken  for  com- 
fort '  but  whom  my  '  words  had  helped  to  suffer.'  The 
letter  of  this  stranger  expressed  a  wish  that  I  should  be- 
come acquainted  with  a  memoir,  printed  at  that  date  for 
private  circulation  only,  — '  a  faithful  record  '  by  herself 
of  her  '  husband's  life  and  death.'  This  letter  was  from 
Lucy  C.  Smith  ;  the  precious  deposit  which  quickly  fol- 
lowed it  was  a  volume  containing  the  printed  works 'of 
William  Smith  (who  had  at  that  time  been  dead  about 
three  years),  and  the  memoir  above  mentioned. 

"  Letters  and  sonnets  were  exchanged  at  intervals  after 
this,  but  no  meeting  took  place  or  was  so  much  as  thought 
of, — indeed  my  correspondent  gave  me  to  understand 
that  there  were  reasons  for  which  she  did  not  wish  it,  — 
until  in  the  autumn  of  1876  my  husband  and  myself 
found  ourselves  at  Bettws-y-Coed.  She  had  told  me  that 
she  could  express  herself  more  fully  to  me  with  the  idea 
that  we  were  not  to  meet  in  the  flesh,  for  that  she  desired 
no  new  pleasures,  not  even  that  of  acquaintanceship,  — 
nothing  but  what  had  some  part  in  the  memory  in  which 
she  lived.  The  fact  therefore  which  I  learned  incidentally 
that  we  should  be  her  neighbours  for  a  few  days  at  the 
Llanberis  Hotel  gave  me  110  expectations  of  meeting  her. 


LED  ONWARD.  517 

"  Our  arrival,  however,  was  greeted  by  a  note  from  Mrs. 
Smith,  delivered  by  a  friend  who  was  then  staying  with 
her.  The  note  invited  us  to  tea  that  same  evening.  We 
readily  found  the  house  indicated,  a  pretty  cottage  shut 
off  from  the  road  by  a  garden,  and  all  overrun  with  jas- 
mine and  China  roses.  The  dear  inmate  was  waiting  to 
receive  us.  I  think  at  this  time  the  facing  of  every  new 
incident  in  life  cost  her  an  effort,  and  I  am  very  sure  that 
to  the  end  each  revived  sense  of  pleasure  was  accompanied 
by  the  pang  with  which  she  realized  her  loneliness  in  it. 

44  The  presence  of  Lucy  Smith,  the  wife  and  widow  of 
the  memoir,  was  every  whit  as  gracious  as  we  had  hoped 
to  find  it.  She  must  at  that  time  have  been  over  fifty, 
but  looked  I  think  much  younger.  A  pale  face,  large 
hazel  eyes  rather  far  apart,  a  singular  earnestness  and 
presentness  of  expression,  as  of  one  whose  thoughts  and 
feelings  were  overflowing,  from,  an  ever-living  spring. 
Her  voice,  soft  and  musical,  sounded  as  somewhat  bur- 
thened  by  feeling.  Withal  there  was  no  sense  of  strain 
in  her  companionship  ;  she  was  too  wholly  true  for  that ; 
rather  one  was  inclined  to  share  with  her  in  the  repose  re- 
sulting from  the  detachment  of  the  spirit  from  all  earthly 
strivings.  Since  others  were  present,  my  husband  and  I 
were  each  enabled  to  hold  some  conversation  with  her 
almost,  as  the  Germans  say,  unter  vier  augen. 

44  4 1  was  shy  of  seeing  you,'  she  said,  4  not  only  that  I 
seek  for  nothing  that  has  not  its  root  in  the  past,  but  I  am 
sensitive  for  him,  —  tender  as  he  was  to  me  and  blind  to 
my  shortcomings,  —  and  could  wish  for  something  better 
to  show  as  his  wife.' 

44  She  had  a  deep  love  of,  and  understanding  sympathy 
with,  nature.  Mountains  were  her  recreation  grounds,  and 
there  were  some  among  them,  notably  Snowdon  and  Hel- 
vellyn,  that  she  seemed  to  have  endowed  almost  with  a 
human  personality.  During  her  frequent  sojourns  in 
their  neighbourhood  she  lived  quite  on  familiar  terms  with 


518  LUCY  SMITH. 

them,  and  was  perhaps  even  more  given  than  was  good  for 
her  to  measuring  her  strength  against  the  giants.  The 
devastation  of  their  flora  at  the  untender  hands  of  tourists 
was  a  constant  source  of  vexation  to  her.  For  her  own 
part  she  was  content  to  do  homage  to  their  rarer  ferns  and 
mosses  on  their  own  ground ;  it  was  not  often  that  she 
carried  even  a  frond  or  a  blossom  away  with  her. 

" '  The  sense  of  loss  is  keen,  and  at  times  overwhelming  ; 
and  yet  the  next  best  thing  in  life  to  a  great  joy  is  a  great 
sorrow.'  Such  were  her  words  ;  and  they  were  true. 
She  was  lifted  above  all  sordid  ambitions,  all  selfish 
greed  ;  readily  recipient  of  impressions  from  the  beautiful 
and  the  true,  in  art  as  well  as  nature  ;  judging  all  things 
not  by  the  vain  breath  of  fashion  but  tried  at  the  touch- 
stone of  her  own  sincerity ;  capable  of  the  truest  sympathy 
as  well  in  the  joys  as  the  sorrows  of  others,  and  where  need 
was,  of  generous  devotion.  Much  of  this  was  made  clear 
to  our  understanding  in  our  first  interview  with  her,  but 
at  this  distance  of  time  I  cannot  tell  how  much  of  it  was 
gathered,  or  how  much  divined.  Upon  another  evening 
we  were  again,  at  her  bidding,  sitting  in  the  Welsh  cot- 
tage, discoursing  with  her  and  her  friends  of  things  new 
and  old.  The  heart  that  was  so  open  to  human  sympathy 
was  not  closed  to  the  animal  creation.  At  this  time  much 
affectionate  regard  was  given  to  the  droll  behaviour  and 
altogether  foreign  ways  of  a  little  chinchilla.  It  struck 
me  that  a  dog  might  have  made  a  fuller  return,  but  I  be- 
lieve that  some  feeling  on  the  part  of  him  whose  lightest 
word  had  become  part  of  the  unwritten  law  of  her  life 
prevented  her  from  seeking  the  degree  of  solace  she  might 
have  found  in  such  companionship. 

"  And  this  leads  me  to  the  statement  of  an  impression 
which  was  gradually  deepening  as  my  intercourse  with 
Mrs.  Smith  in  this  short  first  period  became  closer.  The 
love  which  as  a  pure  and  spiritual  flame  maintained  its 
place  in  her  life,  undiminished  in  the  absence  of  sight  and 


LED  ONWARD.  519 

sense,  seemed  not  to  have  conquered  for  her  the  hope 
which  is  the  supreme  triumph  of  love  over  death.  No 
wonder  if  at  this  time  the  flame  that  had  no  such  issue 
was  wearing  away  the  flesh.  I  had  had  many  opportunities 
of  observing  the  work  of  love  upon  the  human  conscious- 
ness, and  had  seen,  sometimes  from  spoken,  sometimes 
from  written  words,  how  the  hardest  and  most  imper- 
vious intelligence,  melted  by  hope  and  longing,  became 
as  it  were  an  illuminated  medium.  I  know  all  that  can 
be  said  to  throw  discredit  upon  such  light  as  a  divine  rev- 
elation, but  I  still  thank  God  that  great  and  pure  love  has 
the  power  to  generate  such  light  in  its  season  of  earthly 
eclipse,  for  though  it  were  no  better  than  a  divine  mad- 
ness, it  has  done,  as  I  trust  it  has  yet  to  do,  more  for  the 
progress  of  the  race  than  could  ever  be  accomplished  by 
the  unaided  toil  of  reason.  It  is  love,  as  our  poet-painter 
Watts  has  shown  us  in  his  great  picture  of  "  Love  leading 
Life  up  the  stair  of  human  progress,"  that  is  the  human- 
izing influence  our  race  has  unconsciously  obeyed.  How 
long  would  love  at  its  noblest  endure  if,  tied  hand  and 
foot,  it  knew  itself  the  prisoner  of  time  ?  The  human 
heart  I  think  would  decline  to  embark  itself  upon  a  hope- 
less venture ;  there  would  be  no  more  grand  passions  - — 
or  if  there  were,  their  tragedy  would  alone  remain,  — 
their  grandeur  would  have  departed.  I  knew  something 
of  all  this  at  that  time  ;  since  then,  continued  observation 
of  life  has  taught  me  much  more.  But  here  was  a  love 
great  enough  for  the  loftiest  hope  that  has  ever  been  born 
of  such,  and  yet  it  seemed  to  me  that  an  invisible  drag 
was  upon  it,  forbidding  it  to  enter  upon  its  heritage. 
With  further  knowledge  of  the  workings  of  this  devoted 
spirit,  it  became  clear  that  an  effort  to  maintain  the  atti- 
tude and  keep  herself  at  the  point  reached  at  the  time  of 
his  death  by  the  reasonable  and  candid  mind  of  William 
Smith  —  reacted  upon  as  I  inferred  by  a  temperament 
which  was  not  rich  in  hope  —  was  the  influence  which 


520  LUCY  SMITH. 

was  retarding  love's  perfect  work  in  the  loyal  soul  of  his 
widow.  The  moon  was  flooding  with  clear  white  light  the 
spaces  of  the  little  garden  between  the  shrubs  when  we 
parted  at  the  gate.  Neither  my  husband  nor  I  shall  ever 
forget  her  face  and  her  voice :  '  I  am  a  ghost,'  she  said, 
'  I  only  seem  to  be  here,  I  am  a  ghost.'  Her  large  eyes 
shone  upon  us  out  of  her  pale  face,  which  was  the  only 
point  of  light  in  her  person,  her  black  dress  mingling  with 
the  shadows.  She  looked  at  us  a  moment,  and  when  she 
turned  away,  it  was  as  if  she  had  vanished. 

"  I  was  deeply  impressed  with  this  abiding  sorrow, 
amounting  at  times  to  keenest  anguish  —  with  the  sight 
of  this  '  patience '  which  was  yet  not  doing  its  '  perfect 
work.' 

"  If  life  be  continued  after  death,  as  love  affirms ;  if 
love,  which  is  spiritual  nearness,  still  holds  the  souls  of 
those  who  have  truly  loved  to  their  allegiance,  —  nothing 
could  be  more  competent  to  disturb  the  harmony  of  the 
relationship  than  a  maintenance  on  the  part  of  the  one 
left  of  a  mental  attitude  from  which  the  other  had  de- 
parted. It  is  not  by  restraining  the  spirit  from  develop- 
ing under  the  pressure  of  new  circumstances,  by  adhering 
to  the  letter  of  the  creed  which  was  that  of  the  beloved 
in  the  days  of  his  darkness,  that  we  can  hope  to  keep  step 
with  a  soul  that  has  entered  upon  a  new  revelation. 

"  During  the  next  nearly  seven  years  which  intervened 
I  saw  Mrs.  William  Smith  from  time  to  time  as  circum- 
stances permitted,  and  ever  with  increasing  pleasure. 
The  correspondence  that  was  kept  up  in  the  intervals  was 
mostly  with  my  husband,  between  whom  and  Mrs.  Smith 
there  was  an  understanding  sympathy,  —  but  it  kept  me 
informed  of  all  her  movements,  and  of  much  that  went 
forward  within  her.  We  gathered  from  the  correspond- 
ence and  these  meetings,  that  although  the  beloved  mem- 
ory was  cherished,  —  jealously  cherished  as  the  most  sa- 
cred of  religions,  —  the  hope  without  which  love  can 


LED   ONWARD.  521 

hardly  continue  to  exist  was  constantly  gaining  strength, 
and  her  healthy  vitality  was  renewing  its  hold  upon  her 
surrounding  conditions.  The  change  was  visible  in  her  ap- 
pearance, no  less  than  in  her  words  and  manner  ;  she  was 
no  longer  4  a  ghost.'  And  yet  the  action  in  which  she  most 
often  recurs  to  my  remembrance  is  one  in  which  some 
protest  was  made  against  the  seeming  singleness  of  heart 
with  which  she  occasionally  entered  into  the  merriment  of 
others.  More  than  once  when  she  has  contributed  the 
best  thing  said  to  a  lively  conversation,  she  has  abruptly 
turned  her  back  upon  the  company,  and  looked  at  me 
with  eyes  that  had  such  a  seeking,  hungry  yearning  in 
them  that  they  seemed  to  sweep  me  away  with  her  into 
some  silent  region  where  soul  communed  with  soul  with- 
out the  aid  of  words. 

"There  was  a  delightful  impression  of  unity  about 
Lucy  Smith  ;  the  accidental  seemed  to  have  less  place  in 
her  constitution  than  in  that  of  most  others.  She  did  not 
give  you  the  notion  of  a  stream  made  up  of  arbitrarily  re- 
lated parts,  whose  action  shaped  by  circumstances  it  was 
impossible  to  predict ;  on  the  contrary  you  felt  that  here 
you  had  to  do  with  a  definite  organization,  —  with  a  being 
whom  it  was  possible  to  know.  To  me  the  note  of  her 
character,  that  which  constituted  her  a  personality  apart 
from  that  of  other  noble  women  with  whom  I  have  been 
in  relation,  was  the  width  no  less  than  the  depth  of  her 
affections.  She  was  rich  in  feeling  not  only  by  concentra- 
tion, but  by  extension  ;  her  sympathies  were  wide  as  well 
as  deep.  ...  I  have  hinted  at  the  consolations  which  the 
widow  of  William  Smith  derived  from  friendship  ;  never 
have  I  known  a  woman  who  had  so  many  and  such  true 
hearts  in  her  service,  never  any  one  who  was  able  to  make 
so  full  a  return  for  the  precious  gifts  received.  Always 
ready  to  mourn  with  those  who  mourned,  to  rejoice  with 
those  who  rejoiced,  the  possessions  of  others  seemed  to 
gladden  her  as  if  poured  into  her  own  lap  ;  even  the  sight 


522  LUCY  SMITH. 

of  the  enjoyment  by  another  of  the  love  which  she  es- 
teemed the  highest  good  was  not  embittered  by  any  re- 
turn upon  her  own  loss ;  it  was  not  in  her  to  feel  the 
poorer  for  others'  wealth. 

"  I  feel  my  tribute  of  remembrance  to  Lucy  Smith  to 
be  very  faint,  all  the  more  so  perhaps  for  lacking  the 
touches  of  shadow,  which  had  I  put  them  in  must  have 
been  false,  as  I  could  not  have  taken  them  from  the  life. 
My  association  with  her  only  gave  to  view  the  high  lights 
of  character. 

"  William  Smith  has  written  of  4  Knowing  and  Feeling ; ' 
I  have  been  contemplating  his  widow  only  from  the  side 
of  4  feeling,'  since  it  was  the  depth  and  truth  of  her  emo- 
tions which  more  than  all  else,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  set  her 
as  a  being  apart.  I  have  known  others  whose  culture 
was  as  wide  ;  some  perhaps,  but  if  so  few,  very  few,  whose 
judgment  was  as  independent ;  —  but  none  who  while 
capable  of  love  so  deep  had  sympathies  so  far  -  reaching. 
For  this  she  will  occupy  a  unique  place  in  the  memory  and 
the  affections  of  all  who  knew  her." 

Another  friend  writes :  — 

"  I  have  wondered  that  a  nature  so  sublimely  endowed 
with  love  as  Lucy  Smith's  did  not  sometimes  find,  even  in 
the  time  of  her  bereavement,  a  joy  unmixed  with  anguish, 
and  a  perfect  assurance  of  continued  union.  Such  an  ex- 
perience comes  I  know  to  some  men  and  women.  It  is  not 
constant  with  them,  but  there  are  hours  when  it  fills  and 
satisfies  the  soul.  Hope  does  not  adequately  describe  it, 
for  it  does  not  look  to  the  future ;  it  is  the  sense  of  a  pres- 
ent love,  as  blessed  and  perfect  as  ever  the  bodily  pres- 
ence gave.  One  is  lifted  above  all  doubt  and  fear  ;  past, 
present,  and  future  are  invested  in  one  serene  radiance  of 
joy  and  love.  Such  hours  pass  ;  we  come  down  from 
them  to  the  ordinary  plane  of  living ;  but  so  much  of  their 
light  remains  as  to  be  strength  unspeakable.  A  supreme 
affection  seems  to  carry  in  itself  the  consciousness  of  a  tie 


LED   ONWARD.  523 

which  no  outward  event,  not  even  death,  can  break. 
Something  resembling  or  approaching  this  must  I  am  sure 
have  been  felt  by  this  woman,  who  I  think  in  her  genius 
for  loving  exceeded  all  whom  I  have  known.  But  in  my 
acquaintance  with  her  I  never  recognized  that  she  had 
tasted  the  fulness  of  this  consciousness,  or  that  any  hour 
had  been  quite  free  from  an  anguished  longing." 

But  it  would  seem  that  in  just  this  direction  lay  the 
wonderful  education  of  these  later  years.  It  was  like  the 
gradual  development  of  a  new  faculty  in  the  soul,  —  this 
power  to  rise  above  the  absence  of  the  visible  symbol,  and 
feel  the  reality  of  a  pure  spiritual  communion.  For  a  na- 
ture so  tender,  so  fond,  so  clinging  as  hers,  how  could  the 
process  be  other  than  slow  ?  And  her  whole  previous  life 
had  been  spent  in  close  society  with  those  she  loved  best. 
Two  years  after  her  husband's  death,  in  writing  to  a  friend 
of  a  proposed  brief  stay  by  herself  in  the  country,  she  says 
she  has  never  in  her  life  been  alone.  For  ten  years  she 
had  been  used,  for  every  need  of  her  heart  and  mind,  to 
rest  absolutely  on  the  hand  now  vanished,  the  voice  now 
still.  An  adaptation  to  such  changed  conditions  was  like 
the  transfer  from  one  world  to  another. 

Doubtless*  too,  she  was  under  special  influences  from 
the  character  of  her  husband's  thinking,  and  from  her  at- 
titude toward  his  memory.  That  attitude  was  one  of 
worship.  A  part  of  her  worship  was  to  seek  to  follow 
his  thoughts,  his  ideals,  and  no  others  ;  to  mould  herself 
wholly  on  him.  But  may  we  not  believe  that  he  would 
have  gently  reminded  her  —  for  it  was  one  of  his  most 
characteristic  thoughts  —  that  to  every  nature,  to  every 
organization,  there  is  assigned  its  own  law,  its  own  de- 
velopment, for  which  no  other  can  be  substituted,  not  even 
that  of  the  most  revered  and  beloved  ?  Whoever  saw 
these  two  together  in  life,  and  appreciated  their  perfect 
union,  must  have  realized  that  its  very  perfection  lay 
partly  in  those  differences  which  made  them  supplements 


524  LUCY  SMITH. 

to  each  other.     Of  no  pair  was  it  ever  truer  than  of  them, 

that 

"  Woman  is  not  undeveloped  man, 
But  diverse  ;  could  we  make  her  as  the  man, 
Sweet  love  were  slain  ;  his  dearest  bond  is  this, 
Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference." 

When  he  was  taken  from  her,  she  tried  to  follow  in  his 
footsteps,  as  everywhere  else,  so  especially  on  the  one  sub- 
ject that  engaged  her  heart  —  the  thought  of  a  future  life. 
But  in  regard  to  that  theme  the  difference  between  his 
nature  and  her  nature,  between  his  experience  and  her  ex- 
perience, required  and  even  compelled  a  different  attitude 
in  her  from  what  his  had  been.  The  favorite  realm  of 
his  life  was  thought,  inquiry,  speculation.  His  virtue  was 
to  test  each  belief  inexorably  and  fearlessly  by  the  stand- 
ard not  of  desire  but  of  truth ;  to  keep  reason  on  the  judg- 
ment-seat, sovereign  over  the  feelings  which  thronged  and 
pressed  like  tumultuous  suitors.  And  thereby  he  disci- 
plined himself  in  self-control,  and  made  large  advances  in 
those  provinces  of  knowledge  which  are  to  be  mastered  by 
study  and  reflection. 

But  "  no  man  can  escape  the  limitation  of  his  own  qual- 
ities." And  the  habit  of  incessantly  subjecting  all  ideas 
and  emotions  to  a  rigorous  scrutiny  imposes  an  undue 
limitation  on  some  noble  faculties.  A  lawyer's  cross-ex- 
amination often  sifts  truth  out  of  falsehood,  but  a  per- 
petual cross-examination  may  rob  the  true  story  of  its 
impressive  and  convincing  quality.  Nor  does  the  atmos- 
phere of  perpetual  meditation  serve  best  to  generate  the 
great  insights  and  assurances  which  belong  to  a  complete 
humanity.  Some  highest  knowledge  comes  only  through 
action.  It  is  only  when  the  young  bird  trusts  itself  to 
flight  that  it  learns  how  buoyant  the  air  is  to  its  wing. 
Meditation  was  to  this  soul  the  nest  whence  it  could  never 
bring  itself  to  fly.  It  would  seem  that  its  full  liberation 
could  come  only  with  the  release  from  earthly  conditions. 


LED   ONWARD.  525 

"  When  the  scanty  shores  are  full 
With  Thought's  perilous,  whirling  pool ; 
When  frail  Nature  can  no  more 
Then  the  Spirit  strikes  the  hour  ; 
My  servant  Death  with  solving  rite 
Pours  finite  into  infinite."  1 

The  realm  of  her  life  was  love;  and  love  recognizes 
other  elements  than  the  pure  intellect  affords ;  recognizes 
them  as  truly  as  the  painter  recognizes  color,  which  the 
mathematician  may  ignore.  And  the  life  into  which  per- 
sonal love  enters  largely  is  a  more  complete  life  than  one 
given  over  to  abstraction,  just  as  the  man  who  to  the 
mathematician's  sense  of  form  and  number  adds  the  sense 
of  color  enters  thereby  into  a  completer  world.  His 
method  of  approach  to  truth  was  mainly  by  reflection  and 
analysis.  But  the  highest  realities  to  which  man  attains 
are  far  beyond  man's  power  to  analyze.  Take  that  simple 
fact  signified  when  one  soul  says  to  another  /  love  you. 
Not  one  word  of  the  three  can  you  analyze  or  define,  O 
wise  psychologist !  The  "  I,"  the  "you,"  the  "love  "  — 
each  is  indefinable,  inexplicable,  belonging  to  a  realm  in 
which  the  writ  of  science  does  not  run  —  yet  nothing  is 
more  real. 

And  out  of  these  unf  athomed  deeps  of  the  human  spirit, 
out  of  the  heart's  experience  in  active  commerce  with  its 
fellows  —  out  of  anguish,  rapture,  endurance,  faithfulness 
—  grow  wonderful  aspirations,  premonitions,  assurances. 
They  rarely  shape  themselves  in  exact  and  articulate  form, 
but  express  themselves  rather  as  peace  and  hope  and  joy. 
Some  promise,  too  large  to  be  understood,  not  to  be  fully 
compassed  even  by  the  fulfilment  of  the  most  cherished 
wish,  breathes  a  celestial  air  upon  the  soul. 

This  was  the  path  upon  which  this  woman  was  being 
led  by  gentlest  unseen  hands.  And  while  she  looked 
weeping  back  to  the  irrecoverable  past,  her  feet  were 
1  Emerson,  Threnody. 


526  LUCY  SMITH. 

bearing  her  forward  to  some  diviner  future.  In  her  dark- 
est hour,  she  always  felt  and  followed  the  guiding  hand  of 
Duty.  Slowly  it  grew  upon  her  that  the  hand  was  that  of 
Love. 

In  her  nature,  underlying  all  her  brilliant  gifts,  was  a 
deep  timidity  and  self-distrust.  She  gained  self-confi- 
dence only  as  she  saw  herself  reflected  in  her  husband's 
eyes,  and  in  her  thinking  she  leaned  absolutely  upon  the 
guidance  of  his  mind.  When  she  no  longer  had  his  visi- 
ble companionship,  it  was  past  her  belief  that  she  was  still 
of  value,  —  she  seemed  to  herself  a  dead  and  worthless 
thing.  That  feeling  is  expressed  in  her  letters  with  a  fre- 
quency and  force  which  we  have  mostly  spared  the  reader ; 
choosing  in  our  selections  to  show  him  the  reality  rather 
than  the  delusion  —  that  instead  of  being  dead  she  was 
more  keenly  alive  than  ever ;  instead  of  being  worthless  she 
was  growing  more  precious  year  by  year.  And,  in  keep- 
ing with  this  self-disparagement,  it  was  her  impulse  to  look 
back  to  her  husband's  words,  and  to  think  forward  in 
lines  akin  only  to  his  thoughts  on  the  one  absorbing  ques- 
tion. But  her  husband  once  said  to  her,  "  You  and  I  al- 
ways see  things  alike  —  only  she  goes  further"  And  now 
indeed,  little  as  she  guessed  it,  she  was  "  going  further  "  — 
for  what  the  guidance  of  his  thoughts  could  not  do  was 
done  for  her  by  the  inspiration  of  their  mutual  love. 

There  is  a  tendency  not  uncommon  in  the  serious 
thought  of  our  day,  to  seek  a  satisfactory  solution  of  the 
problem  of  life  without  pressing  too  closely  the  question  of 
a  personal  hereafter.  The  mediaeval  theology  treated  the 
future  state  as  the  one  supreme  fact  by  which  this  mundane 
existence  was  to  be  interpreted.  From  this  theology  a 
great  reaction  has  been  going  on  for  centuries,  a  reaction 
whose  vital  principle  is  the  ever  widening  discovery  of  a 
value  and  significance  in  this  present  sphere  —  the  worth 
of  the  Here  and  Now.  And  this  tendency  at  present  ex- 
tends in  many  minds  even  to  the  dismissal  of  any  belief  or 


LED   ONWARD.  527 

expectation  of  a  Hereafter.  To  such  a  dismissal  three  im- 
pulses contribute  :  the  weakening  of  the  traditional  argu- 
ment for  immortality  from  the  bodily  resurrection  of 
Jesus,  the  disposition  to  regard  man's  spiritual  faculties 
as  functions  of  the  transient  physical  organism,  and  the 
new  object  offered  to  moral  enthusiasm  in  the  progres- 
sive development  of  the  race.  No  student  of  William 
Smith's  writings  need  be  told  that  he  was  very  far  from 
relinquishing  the  hope  of  a  hereafter,  and  that  he  consid- 
ered that  there  were  sober  intellectual  grounds  for  cher- 
ishing that  hope.  Still,  his  philosophy  seldom  emphasizes 
the  idea ;  is  engaged  more  with  the  progress  of  the  race 
than  the  future  of  the  individual ;  and  aims  at  a  temper 
of  thankful  acquiescence  in  the  present,  without  dwelling 
much  on  the  possibilities  of  the  personal  future.  It  is  an 
attitude  which  seems  practicable  to  the  thinker,  absorbed 
in  impersonal  thought.  It  may  seem  practicable  to  those 
whose  present  is  filled  with  happiness.  But,  confront  it 
with  the  noblest  human  trait,  under  the  one  inevitable 
emergency,  —  confront  it  with  Love  in  the  presence  of 
Death,  —  and  it  fails  utterly.  There  can  then  be  no  in- 
difference, no  dismissal  of  the  topic  as  unessential  —  it 
presses  home  upon  the  heart.  So,  where  the  Thinker 
was  content  to  pause,  the  Lover  must  press  on.  The 
woman-nature  —  the  feminine  element,  be  it  in  man  or 
woman  —  here  takes  the  lead.  The  masculine  intellect 
may  learn  of  the  Ewigweibliche,  may  accept  the  final  word 
of  «  Faust  :"- 

"  The  Woman-Soul  leadeth  us  upward  and  on." 

This  woman's  letters  show  how  intensely  and  continu- 
ously she  reverted  to  reading  and  to  speculative  inquiry 
on  the  great  problem.  But  they  show  too  how  she  was 
gaining  life  and  strength  and  hope  through  other  re- 
sources than  those  of  the  intellect.  Light  and  peace 
came  slowly  to  her  through  love  itself,  —  the  one  supreme 


528  LUCY  SMITH. 

love,  having  at  its  heart  the  supreme  hope ;  and  that  love 
for  "  others  too  "  which  welled  irrepressibly  within  her. 
As  her  old  nurse  said  of  her  as  a  child,  "  you  can  get  so 
near  to  Miss  Lucy,"  so  always  she  gets  near  to  every- 
thing she  meets.  For  every  friend,  for  every  stranger  in 
whom  some  trait  attracts  her  eye,  for  every  animal,  and 
even  for  the  mountain  —  for  Helvellyn  or  Suowdon  or 
the  Matterhorn  —  she  has  a  regard  in  which  for  the  mo- 
ment her  whole  nature  seems  to  concentrate  itself ;  even 
in  her  written  words  about  each  beloved  object,  one  feels 
a  caress.  When  from  these  affections  the  conscious  joy 
has  been  stricken  out  by  her  great  grief,  still  there  is  al- 
ways the  impulse  to  help,  to  serve.  It  is  by  this  perpet- 
ual loving  touch  with  humanity  and  nature  that  her  spirit 
is  strengthened  and  restored.  And  no  less  strong  than 
her  affection  is  her  fidelity  to  duty  in  its  homeliest  forms. 
She  is  as  faithful  in  her  economy,  that  least  sentimental 
of  the  virtues,  as  in  the  most  gracious  and  tender  of 
personal  ministries.  The  law  of  her  life  is  the  thorough, 
prompt,  inevitable  performance  of  the  nearest  duty. 
There  is  a  curious  contrast  between  her  husband's  habit- 
ual withdrawal  from  the  shocks  of  actual  existence,  and 
all  its  cark  and  care,  into  the  lonely,  lovely  world  of  his 
own  thoughts,  and  her  habit  of  coming  always  to  close 
grip  with  the  hard,  visible  present,  and  mastering  it.  It 
is  by  such  daily  battle,  by  such  perpetual  iiiterweaval 
with  other  lives  in  sympathy  and  service,  by  the  influences 
flowing  in  upon  her  from  mountain  and  sunset,  and  by 
the  one  love  blent  with  all.  —  it  is  by  these,  more  than  by 
utmost  strain  of  the  questioning  mind,  that  she  rises  to- 
ward the  height  where  fear  is  left  behind,  and  love,  hope, 
and  trust  are  all  in  all. 

Touching  and  wonderful  it  is  to  see  her  life  shaping 
itself  to  greater  issues  than  she  herself  suspects,  —  issues 
which  in  her  passionate  concentration  and  idolatry  she 
would  sometimes  even  deny.  In  many  of  her  letters  the 


LED   ONWARD.  529 

cry  rings  again  and  again  that  she  is  dea J,  —  that  life  is 
over  for  her ;  yet  even  at  that  moment  what  intense  life 
beats  in  her,  and  communicates  its  intensity  to  him  who 
reads  the  words !  Over  and  again  she  declares  that  she 
desires  no  interests,  no  friendships  even,  in  which  her  hus- 
band had  not  had  a  part ;  yet  what  new  interests  do  come 
in,  blending  always  with  the  old,  but  drawing  her  into 
wider  activities,  and  blessing  others  with  her.  Singular 
is  it,  in  a  nature  so  generous  as  hers,  to  see  in  the  early, 
awful  years  of  her  bereavement  how  she  draws  the  line 
between  her  personal  interests  and  the  interests  of  others  ; 
as  when  repeatedly  she  uses  such  expressions  as  this,  in 
speaking  of  a  great  happiness  that  has  come  to  dear 
friends  :  "  But  I  can  no  more  rejoice,  except  through  sym- 
pathy, than  I  could  see,  were  my  eyes  put  out,  the  beauty 
I  might  yet  like  to  have  described."  Yet,  unconfessedly, 
unconsciously,  her  sense  of  the  joys  of  others  does  glad- 
den her  personal  life ;  does  slowly,  sweetly,  restore  to  her 
more  and  more  of  tranquillity  and  happiness.  And  that 
to  the  last  there  mingles  in  her  life  a  great  sorrow,  a 
great  longing,  an  intense  looking  forward  to  something 
unattained,  —  who,  be  it  reverently  said,  would  wish  it 
otherwise  ?  It  is  these  very  yearnings  that  prompt  and 
sustain  the  most  sacred  hope  of  mankind. 

If  her  worship  of  her  husband  had  in  it  —  as  assuredly 
he  would  have  told  her  —  some  touch  of  idolatry ;  if  her 
effort  to  wholly  adopt  and  satisfy  herself  with  his  ways  of 
thought  was  impracticable  ;  yet  most  truly  did  her  life 
derive  guidance  and  impulse  from  what  was  deepest  and 
most  characteristic  in  him.  It  belonged  to  her  rather 
than  to  him  to  develop  into  strength  the  hope  of  immor- 
tality. But  by  his  influence  she  was  perpetually  rein- 
forced in  the  qualities  which  are  more  vital  even  than  the 
immortal  hope  —  the  aspiration  and  effort  toward  a  per- 
fect Tightness  of  character,  and  a  trust  which  seeks  to 
commit  each  personal  wish  to  a  holier  will  and  larger 


530  LUCY  SMITH. 

knowledge  than  ours.  More  is  it  to  the  impetuous  heart 
to  learn  these  lessons  than  to  receive  the  certain  assurance 
it  craves ;  and  these  were  the  very  lessons,  —  fidelity,  as- 
piration, trust,  —  which  her  husband  embodied  to  her, 
and  every  hour  impressed  on  her.  These  were  what  he 
really  signified  to  her ;  this  it  was  in  him  which  won  her 
love ;  this  made  her  love  sacramental,  and  drew  her  by  its 
whole  force  ever  nearer  to  God,  and  nearer  to  all  God's 
creatures. 

To  be  faithful  in  darkness  —  that  is  the  supreme  test 
to  which  the  human  spirit  is  subjected.  It  came  in  early 
years  to  William  Smith,  when  knowledge  of  God  seemed 
lost.  It  came  in  later  years  to  his  wife,  when  parted  from 
her  husband.  Each  walks  the  path  alone,  unshaken  in 
loyalty  and  in  love.  And  upon  the  way  of  each  we  see  a 
tender  light  brightening  like  the  coming  of  the  day. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

"HE  RESTORETH   MY   SOUL." 

To  the  Rev.  Allan  Menzies. 

PATTEBDALE,  April  9,  1877. 

.  .  .  MARY,  Chin,  and  I  came  here  last  Tuesday,  and  I 
fancy  that  the  change  is  doing  Mary  some  good.  Archie 
tells  her  that  you  were  preaching  at  North  Esk,  and  he 
would  have  gone  to  hear  you  but  that  he  had  promised  to 

read  to  dear  Mrs.  S on  Sunday  mornings.     That  was 

my  office  during  my  Edinburgh  stay.  Some  of  the  last 
sermons  that  we  thus  shared,  and  liked  especially,  were 
those  of  Mr.  Service.  My  dear  aged  friend  and  I  have 
much  in  common  difficulties  and  perplexities  enough, 
but,  I  think,  a  deepening  trust  and  a  keener  desire  for 
betterness.  To  me  it  appears  that  her  fine,  strong,  ster- 
ling, generous  nature  is  growing  meeker  and  more  spirit- 
ual, taking  some  ineffable  grace  and  tenderness  from  the 
unspeakable  sorrow,  and  the  dim  and  timid  hope  which 
saves.  How  loving  she  is  to  me  I  cannot  say,  nor  how 
many  tears  she  shed  over  my  departure.  If  you  are  in 
Edinburgh  will  you  try  to  go  and  see  her  ?  I  am  sure 
she  would  like  it.  Archie's  Sunday  reading  would  seem 
very  startling  to  some.  It  was  Kenan's  article  on  Spinoza, 
which  I  had  translated  and  Mrs.  S wished  to  hear. 

You  cannot  think  how  much  time  Mary  and  I  spend, 
I  will  not  say  waste,  in  watching  Chinchilla,  who  is  most 
lovely  after  baths  of  red  sand,  very  fine  and  cleansing, 
rubbing  off  all  the  town  smoke,  and  making  his  dear  little 
waistcoat  and  shirt-front  purely  white.  Mary  has  been 


532  LUCY  SMITH. 

very  kind  to  him,  and  I  do  think  he  knows  her.  We  are 
hoping  that  Archie  may  come  over  at  the  end  of  this  week, 
and  I  suppose  I  shall  be  losing  my  dear  child  before  the 
end  of  this  month.  Then  early  in  May  my  dear  Vi  comes 
to  me.  She  will  come  in  for  the  primroses,  not  one  of 
which  has  yet  appeared. 

.  .  .  There  must  be  this  variety  of  type,  and  if  we  judge 
by  usefulness,  I  hardly  know  which  to  say  is  best.  For 
we  owe  our  virtues  to  the  faults  of  others,  and  we  prac- 
tise their  patience  and  perfect  them  by  the  friction  of 
our  rough  surface.  Ah,  but  we  do  know  very  well  in 
what  direction  the  ideal  lies !  I  read  Dean  Stanley  with 
a  glow  of  the  heart.  How  rapidly  the  Church  of  the  Fu- 
ture seems  gathering  together.  A  great  influx  of  light 
has  come  into  the  world  these  last  years.  I  have  Stan- 
ley's "  Jewish  Church,"  and  Ewald's  "  Isaiah,"  and  shall 
read  both. 

To  the  Rev.  Allan  Menzies. 

PATTERDALE,  June  22,  1877. 

This  day  week  Violetta  and  I  returned  from  Edin- 
burgh, where  kind  Mr.  Constable  was  good  enough  to  har- 
bour us  for  three  nights.  There  had  been  much  indecision 

as  to  going  or  not  going  to  see  my  beloved  Mrs.  S . 

She  had  vehemently  wished  it  at  one  time.  [Friends  dis- 
approved.] So  I  waited,  till  at  length  I  plainly  saw  that 
there  was  no  improvement  actual  or  probable,  and  deter- 
mined for  my  own  satisfaction  to  go.  But  during  the  two 
or  three  days  that  intervened  between  my  decision  and  my 
journey  there  was  a  marked  change  for  the  worse.  I  was 
too  late  to  be  of  any  comfort.  She  did  indeed  know  me, 
as  she  said,  "  perfectly."  She  had  still  loving  words  for 

me.     Once   while  was  expressing   very  pessimistic 

views  indeed,  the  dear  sufferer  looked  uncomfortable,  and 
bore  her  testimony,  "  Goodness  is  everything  !  "  I  talked 
to  her  on  the  one  subject,  the  undying  love  that  makes  one 


"HE  RESTORETH  MY  SOUL."  533 

so  strongly  hope  its  object  lives.  She  said,  "  I  hope  so  — 
yes  —  I  think  so ;  "  and  the  dim  eyes  turned  to  the  pic- 
ture of  her  life-companion,  "  He  will  press  me  to  his 
bosom  again  !  "  One  thought  of  Browning's  lines :  — 

"  O  thou  soul  of  my  soul !  I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 
And  with  God  be  the  rest." 

The  last  morning,  this  day  week,  probably  the  final 
parting,  she  said  in  reply  to  my  words  of  earnest  affection, 
"  I  love  you  always."  But  there  was  no  strong  feeling, 
and  I  left  knowing  she  would  neither  miss  nor  mourn  me. 
I  receive  somewhat  improved  accounts  from  the  dear 
niece,  whose  affection  is  of  a  sanguine  nature.  To  linger 
on  a  little,  not,  I  am  thankful,  suffering  much,  to  be 
further  and  further  isolated  by  the  failure  of  the  senses 
and  the  torpor  of  the  brain,  that  seems  the  only  prospect 
here.  You  can  easily  imagine  the  sadness  of  it,  and  the 
perplexity  that  always  attends  such  a  case.  Where  is  the 
personality  that  we  hope  lives  on  ?  It  is  gone  even  now. 
At  what  instant  would  we  seize  and  render  it  permanent  ? 
Oh,  the  pain  of  it  all !  It  seems  easier  when  the  mind  in 
its  fulness  is  with  us  to  the  last ;  but  it  is  all  clouds  and 
thick  darkness.  She  leaves  a  precious  memory.  For  me 
a  great  love  has  passed  away.  Hardly  my  mother  was 
more  partial  in  her  estimates,  and  she  had  a  mother's  anx- 
iety about  me  in  all  ways.  Bless  her  ! 

When  Vi  and  I  got  back,  Patterdale  was  a  fairyland 
indeed.  It  seemed  wonderful  that  the  hawthorns  could 
stand  erect  under  their  burthen  of  "summer  snow."  I 
never  saw  such  profuseness.  Little  Chin  was  so  well,  so 
lively,  so  engaging.  I  could  not  be  quite  sad  when  I  had 
him  to  watch.  That  was  not  to  be  long.  He  was  dull  on 
Sunday,  but  then  in  the  day-time  it  was  his  way  to  be  a 
little  dull.  And  I  was  so  interested  in  Stanley's  "  Jewish 
Church,"  and  in  letter-writing,  and  after  evening  service 
Vi  and  I  took  so  long  a  walk,  that,  though  Chin  was  not 


534  LUCY  SMITH. 

neglected,  and  had  all  his  little  wants  supplied,  and  his 
cage-door  open,  I  was  less  taken  up  with  him  than  usual. 
I  had  heard  from  my  Mary  of  Chins  living  five  years,  and 
I  had  grown  confident.  The  next  morning  I  went  as 
usual  to  his  cage  the  first  thing.  He  was  plainly  very  ill 
—  he  was  dying.  He  stretched  himself  out  and  gave  a 
sharp  little  cry  —  and  that  sweet  mystery  of  his  engaging 
ways,  the  charm  of  activity,  suddenness,  the  overflow  of 
life  in  that  sweet  fur  —  that  was  over.  It  is  not  for  me 
to  speak  of  this  as  a  sorrow.  Still,  Chin  had  brought  to 
my  life  a  revival  now  and  then  of  play,  of  the  old  delight 
in  animals.  I  could  laugh  over  Chin. 

To  Mrs.  Constable. 

GRISEDALE  BRIDGE,  Aug.  30,  1877. 

.  .  .  Hessie  and  I  set  out  to  explore  Dovedale.  The 
farmer  was  working  in  his  fields,  and  when  we  went  up 
to  him  to  inform  ourselves  of  the  whereabouts  of  the  bull, 
we  found  ourselves  face  to  face  with  one  of  the  noblest 
specimens  of  manhood  we  ever  saw.  What  a  grand  ani- 
mal man  is  at  the  best !  and  in  the  open,  handsome  face 
there  was  the  perfect  good  nature  of  an  unquestioned,  un- 
baffled  strength.  I  never  saw  human  nature  seem  fresher 
from  the  Maker's  hand.  Most  of  us  early  betray  some 
defect  or  other.  .  .  .  Hessie  and  I  had  a  glorious  walk 
and  view  from  the  top  of  Place  Fell  on  Friday.  Such 
splendours  of  golden  mist,  and  sheaves  of  sun-rays  over 
Helvellyn  ;  the  mountains  so  high,  the  lighted-up  spots 
in  the  valleys  so  vividly  green,  as  beauty  moved  with  the 
beam  now  here  now  there,  as  joy  does  in  human  life,  visit- 
ing us  all  or  nearly  all,  but  permanent  with  none. 

Postal-card  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Loomis. 

PATTERDALE,  Sept.  5,  1877. 

Many  thanks  for  the  "  Independent,"  containing  Dr. 
Porter's  interesting  address,  and  a  story  which,  though  it 


"HE  RESTORETH  MY  SOUL."  535 

seemed  to  me  lacking  in  that  subtle  element  of  refined 
taste,  had  touches  of  real  power.  I  might  perhaps  have 
been  tempted  to  dwell  on  certain  points  of  divergence  be- 
tween the  thinking  of  the  sermon  and  that  wrought  into 
my  being.  But  last  night  after  the  dear  familiar  friend 
who  is  staying  with  me  had  gone  to  bed,  I  looked  over  a 
remarkable  book  by  a  certain  Edith  Simcox  on  "  Natural 
Law."  She  is  a  Positivist,  or  perhaps  she  would  prefer 
to  say  a  "  Naturalist."  I  cannot  indeed  but  notice  a  cer- 
tain "  release  of  power  "  in  some  of  these  Agnostics  who 
throw  into  their  relations  with  humanity  the  passion  and 
tenderness  of  religion.  I  do  not  shudder  at  them,  but  to 
me  those  views  are  torture.  My  trust  in  the  Unseen 
Love  and  Wisdom,  — vwhich  I  can  only  think  as  personal, 
though  at  the  saine  time  feeling  the  impossibility  of  defini- 
tion, —  and  my  hope  in  continued  consciousness  and  growth, 
which  to  this  lady  seem  the  mere  surplusage  an  untutored 
mind  has  not  strength  to  throw  off,  —  yet  to  me  they  are 
simply  life.  I  desire  therefore  to  be  increasingly  rever- 
ent with  regard  to  faiths  more  complex  than  my  own.1  I 
desire  mainly  to  be  moulded  more  and  more  by  that  high- 
est teaching  which  in  some  sense  or  other  we  must  all 
name  divine.  You  too  will  bear  with  me,  whose  faith  you 
think  defective.  "  Ich  Jcann  nicht  anders." 

To  Miss  Violetta  Smith. 

[1877.]  I  entirely  agree  with  Mr.  Menzies  about  the 
influence  of  that  great  Ideal.  What  future  ages  may 
feel,  we  cannot  tell ;  but  to  us,  where  we  stand  and  with 
our  religious  training,  that  name  must  be  above  every 
name,  I  think,  in  its  moral  authority  and  its  attractive 
power.  But  oh,  my  Vi,  I  cannot  distinguish.  The  one 

1  To  another  correspondent  :  "  I  desire  more  deeply  to  reverence 
faiths  I  do  not  share,  faiths  more  complex  and  cumbrous  as  it  seems 
to  me,  just  as  to  Miss  S.  my  trust  in  an  Unseen  Wisdom  and  hope  of 
continued  existence  would  seem  mere  surplusage." 


536  LUCY  SMITH. 

given  to  me  to  call  out  all  my  energy  of  love,  all  my  ten- 
derness,  all  my  reverence,  my  angel,  is  so  "  blent  with  God 
and  nature,"  so  one  with  the  highest  influence,  that  I  often 
seem  to  rest  there.  But  I  repeat  his  words  in  craving  a 
fellowship  in  Christ's  u  deep  love,"  and  a  willing  accept- 
ance of  his  sufferings.  Oh,  there  is  no  practical  difficulty  ! 
Just  a  few  watchwords  suffice:  "Hoping  for  nothing 
again  ;  "  "  Whether  it  were  /  or  they  ;  "  "  If  ye  love  them 
only  that  love  you,  what  thank  have  ye  ?  "  Self -surrender 
aimed  at  will  bring  by  and  by  its  high  reward,  self-forget- 
fulness  attained.  And  if  our  eye  be  single,  if  we  are  con- 
tent to  be  quite  insignificant  parts  of  the  great  whole,  the 
beauty  of  the  harmony  of  the  whole  will  flow  into  us,  and 
we  shall  be  filled  with  the  fulness  of  God. 

[1877.]  There  come  times  perhaps  when  people  are 
tempted  to  intermit  exchanging  letters,  when  it  seems 
hardly  worth  while ;  but  oh,  I  so  feel  the  necessity  of 
keeping  up  human  relationships  that  are  dear  and  sacred, 
and  that  have  the  significance  of  habit  stamped  upon 
them.  I  do  not  think  it  wise  to  leave  our  doings  to  casual 
impulse,  as  you  say,  to  "  the  spirit  moving."  I  would  go 
on  with  what  I  had  begun,  even  if  the  initiatory  glow 
were  over. 

"  But  tasks  in  hours  of  insight  willed 
Can  be  through  hours  of  gloom  fulfilled." 

Now,  my  Vi,  this  is  a  generalization  for  my  own  be- 
hoof, and  not  at  all  a  preachment  for  you. 

To  Mrs.  Cotton. 

EDINBURGH,  1877. 

I  read  the  "  Times  "  with  great  interest,  and  think  of 
what  my  husband's  interest  in  the  events  and  their  ten- 
dency would  have  been  —  he  whose  abstraction  from  him- 
self gave  an  insight  not  common,  for  few  in  any  age  can 


"HE   RESTORETH   MY   SOUL."  537 

live  so  abstracted.  And  those  few  see  God,  and  are  there- 
fore "  necessarily  optimists."  And  so  I  strive  to  keep  calm 
in  view  of  the  absurd  Free  Church  attitude  just  now,  re- 
membering that  they  too  are  playing  a  prearranged,  an 
ordered,  and  therefore  a  useful  part.  "  Tolerating  the  in- 
tolerant "  I  see  was  a  mark  of  Tightness  laid  down  in  one 
of  the  oldest  Vedas,  and  we  should  learn  it  from  a  later 
teaching.  But  to  some  of  us  imperfect  ones  it  will  come 
hard  to  the  end.  ...  I  think  nothing  can  give  you  such 
an  idea  of  the  leisure  of  my  life  as  the  fact  that  I  am 
reading  Dante  —  got  through  three  cantos  of  the  "  Pur- 
gatorio  "  this  wet  day  with  great  interest. 

To  Mrs.  Henry  Hemans. 

VENTNOR,  March  24,  1878. 

.  .  .  These  extreme  cases  are  useful  as  warnings,  and 
I  cannot  look  upon  them  as  guilty,  only  as  objects  of  our 
deepest  compassion.  But  in  the  fulness  of  things,  when 
all  wills  are  one  with  the  Infinite  Power  and  Purpose  that 
works  through  all  for  good,  I  can  understand  that  one 
might  be  quite  reconciled  to  having  been  of  use,  if  only 
as  a  warning  —  to  having  been  a  discord,  so  only  that 
through  our  jar  harmony  be  prized  more  deeply. 

To  Mrs.  A.  Constable. 

KENSINGTON,  April  24,  1878. 

...  I  have  been  up  long,  have  breakfasted  and  packed 
(only  I  must  take  off  my  satin  gown  after  the  ceremony), 

and  have   been   sitting  with   the  sweet  A ,  who  was 

quite  calm,  and  capable  of  all  interests  ;  very  glad  to  hear 
a  better  account  of  you ;  putting  her  Honiton  lace  on  her 
wedding  dress,  which  is  lovely,  as  I  hope  you  will  see ; 
she  was  sewing  it  in  so  deftly.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
I  go  to  see  her  dress.  She  is  the  most  taking  creature, 
and  indeed  he  is  sweet.  In  appearance,  so  English ;  in 
movement  "  of  the  sweet  South,"  evidently.  But  I  hope, 


538  LUCY  SMITH. 

my  dear  one,  you  will  see  him.  Yesterday  a  charming 
youth  called  for  me,  Frank  L ,  my  husband's  great- 
nephew.  The  perfection  of  an  English  schoolboy;  tall, 
fair,  strong,  pure,  modest;  with  a  distinction  of  repose 
and  ease  that  surprised  me;  it  was  exceptional.  Con- 
voyed by  the  dear  fellow,  as  soon  as  I  saw  his  mother 
my  enthusiasm  found  expression.  How  she  hugged  me ! 
"  You  were  very  nice  before,  but  now  !  "  She  says  he  is 
the  sweetest  fellow,  but  she  does  not  expect  people  to  find 
it  out  at  once.  I  came  back  alone  just  in  time  to  see  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Pfeiffer.  They  came  just  at  the  one  hour  I 
limited  them  to,  and  their  kindness  is  wonderful. 

(Back  from  the  marriage.)  She  looked  sweet  and 
graceful  in  her  soft  gray  dress  ;  he  so  nice,  his  dress  quite 
perfect ;  so  finished,  graceful,  and  easy ;  speaking  his  vow 
so  distinctly ;  and  so  did  she,  and  oh,  what  a  heavenly 
look  !  Earthly  love  seeing  the  divine  came  into  her  eyes, 
a  beauty  of  soul  quite  mysterious.  If  a  painter  could  have 
caught  her  then  for  an  Annunciation !  The  service  was 
cut  short,  and  beautifully  read  by  Mr.  Gordon.  Sophy 
and  I  followed  them  to  the  vestry.  An  impulse  came 
over  me  to  kiss  him  too.  Oh,  the  affectionateness  of  his 
dear  nature !  As  they  left  he  threw  himself  into  my  arms 
again,  and  said  "  Mother"  in  so  thrilling  a  tone !  Bless- 
ings go  with  them  !  A  happier  pair,  more  earnest-hearted, 
more  entirely  loving,  never  knelt  to  take  their  eternal  vow. 

To  Mrs.  Haughton. 

June  18,  1878.  .  .  .  Now  that  I  am  alone  I  turn  to  a 
sacred  task  begun  three  years  ago,  but  I  cannot  continue 
it  unless  I  am  alone.  It  is  a  fuller  record  of  our  life. 
The  few  who  have  read  it  say  it  is  intensely  interesting. 
How  should  it  not  be  with  him  for  its  subject  ?  But  it  is 
incompatible  with  other  writing. 

This  refers  to  the  manuscript  of  which  a  part  is  given 


"HE  RESTORETH  MY  SOUL."  539 

in  chapters  XVI.-XVIII.  In  the  original,  the  writer 
sometimes  reverts  for  a  moment  from  the  story  of  the  past 
to  the  emotions  of  the  present,  —  as  in  this  passage  (Oc- 
tober 11,  1877). 

"  Oh,  my  one  and  only  love,  to  whom  I  owe  all  of  true 
happiness  I  have  ever  known  —  a  joy  that  was  peace,  a 
gladness  that  was  rest  as  well  as  intensity,  a  fulness  and 
completeness  of  life  that  seemed  immortal !  Words  can- 
not express  it,  and  always  I  think  it  is  rare,  because  you 
who  inspired  it  were  rare,  were  unique.  But  a  few  nights 
since  I  dreamed  that  I  was  with  you,  and  again  knew  that 
unutterable  rapture  —  was  caught  up  into  that  seventh 
heaven  which  cannot  be  communicated,  which  shows  one 
the  strange  absence  of  happiness  in  the  life  that  now  is  — 
reveals,  and  reconciles !  " 

To  Mrs.  A.  Constable. 

PATTERDALE,  June  20,  1878. 

I  am  living  as  it  were  what  he  called  when  we  were  to- 
gether, "  a  trance-life."  I  am  not  here  nor  alone.  I  can- 
not express  the  double  consciousness,  the  sense  of  oneness. 
Last  evening  I  went  on  a  high  hill  where  I  had  never  been 
before ;  saw  High  Street  and  the  west  glow  red  in  the 
sunset,  and  the  range  of  Fairfield  so  purple.  I  could  have 
gone  down  into  Deepdale,  but  kept  that  for  your  compan- 
ionship. My  tooth  ached  to  be  sure  all  the  time,  but  even 
that  did  not  interfere  with  the  one  thought.  And  yet  I 
feel  that  it  only  enlarges  my  interest  in  others.  In  short, 
it  is  life  ;  and  given  life,  it  may  be  variously  used.  The 
fellow  lodgers  are  innocuous,  though  I  do  hear  more  of 
childish  prattle  than  I  care  for.  There  is  a  little  lad  at 
Mrs.  Varty's  who  has  plainly  a  passionate  friendship  for 
the  older  and  undemonstrative  urchin  here.  I  met  them 
last  evening  in  the  lane.  Little  one,  with  a  very  red,  emo- 
tional face  :  "  I  did  not  know  you  before,  did  I  ?  "  (No 


540  LUCY  SMITH. 

answer.)  "  I  was  not  long  picking  up  your  acquaintance, 
was  I  ?  "  And  so  forth ;  and  I  dare  say  the  elder  one 
was  a  little  ashamed  or  at  least  shy  over  it,  though  in- 
wardly pleased.  The  father  smokes,  and  has  laid  his  fish- 
ing trousers  to  dry  on  the  earth  just  in  my  sight,  so  I  need 
not  expatiate  on  his  class.  But  he  is  good-hearted,  and  I 
liked  him  for  going  into  the  water  after  his  boy's  ball. 

"  Punch  "  is  delightful.     Oh,  if would  take  it  and 

give  up  "  The  Rock !  "  Surely  "  The  Record  "  Is  enough  of 
that  most  unchristian  of  all  things,  religious  controversy. 

To  Mrs.  Henry  Hemans. 

PATTEBDALE,  July  5,  1878. 

...  As  to  happiness,  dear,  that  died  with  him,  and  can 
never  in  any  sense  return.  But  I  should  not  call  myself 
unhappy.  I  have  too  infinite  a  love  in  my  heart  for  that. 
I  am  so  thankful  for  the  blessed  past.  And  I  throw  my- 
self sufficiently  into  the  life  of  others  to  forget  to  ask  my- 
self often  whether  I  am  happy  or  not.  I  am  very,  very 
thankful  for  the  six  years  over  and  gone  which  really 
leave  no  trace.  I  never  find  them  recurring  to  mind  ex- 
cept indeed  with  some  reference  to  others.  Once  I  left 
my  angel  for  a  week,  and  he  said  :  "  The  Friday  you  re- 
turn will  be  virtually  the  afternoon  of  the  Friday  on 
which  you  left.  The  weekly  bill  may  be  brought  in  by 

Miss under  the  impression  that  such  an  interval  has 

existed,  but  to  me  it  is  mere  blank."  I  feel  in  the  same 
way  about  these  parted  years.  My  conscious  life  must  be 
taken  up  again  from  the  moment  of  parting.  .  .  .  With 
the  interests  or  amusements  of  this  world  personally  I 
have  done.  I  think  of  public  matters,  notice  the  course 
of  events  as  he  would  have  me  do,  try  not  to  let  my  mind 
grow  dull,  try  to  keep  worthy  of  his  companionship.  I 
put  in  for  you  little  simple  lines  that  welled  out  from  my 
heart  —  that  I  cried  aloud  the  other  evening  on  the  lonely 
mountain  side.  That  tells  all  of  myself  that  there  is  to 
tell. 


"HE  RESTORETH  MY  SOUL."       541 

THE  PRAYER  OF  MY  HEART. 

All  I  would  wish  from  my  loved  one  to  hide, 
Take  Thou  away,  Lord,  take  Thou  away  ; 
Meanness  of  jealousy,  madness  of  pride, 
Take  Thou  away  ! 

All  I  would  be  in  that  cherished  one's  sight, 

Make  me  to  be,  Lord,  make  me  to  be  ; 
Faithful  and  loving,  and  true  to  the  light, 
Make  me  to  be  ! 

Just  as  he  lived,  free  from  blame  before  all, 
Grant  me  to  live,  Lord,  grant  me  to  live  ; 
Loyal  to  duty,  whatever  befall, 
Grant  me  to  live  ! 

Just  as  he  died,  on  the  heart  he  held  dear, 

Give  me  to  die,  Lord,  give  me  to  die  ; 
Meek,  patient,  calm  —  without  shadow  of  fear, 
Give  me  to  die  ! 

To  Mrs.  A.  Constable. 

PATTERDALE,  August  6,  1878. 

.  .  .  Archie's  telegram  came,  and  Emily  delighted  in 
going ;  she  had  had  a  latent  desire  to  see  Edinburgh,  and 
loves  a,  frisk.  And  though  it  poured  as  we  stood  in  our 
lane,  waiting  for  the  postman's  wagonette,  it  soon  cleared, 
and  we  had  a  pleasant  drive,  and  our  third-class  was  most 
comfortable  and  nearly  empty,  and  when  we  arrived  every- 
thing was  so  pleasant  —  fire,  food,  and  dear  Archie,  who 
had  been  with  Birnam  to  the  train  he  expected  us  by. 
Next  morning  I  was  up  and  ready  to  hear  Robert  Collyer, 
though  in  for  a  cold  and  poorly  enough,  Archie  had  or- 
dered a  cab,  and  we  were  in  excellent  time.  But  the 
chapel  was  so  empty ;  no  one  cared  or  knew  anything 
about  this  great  preacher  —  certainly  the  greatest  I  have 
heard,  and  Archie  will  I  think  have  told  you  the  same. 
The  man  is  one  of  those  rarely  perfect  organizations  so  sel- 


542  LUCY  SMITH. 

dom  seen  that  one  notices  them  instantly.  As  he  walked 
into  the  church,  little  Emily  irreverently  asked  herself, 
"  Are  there  such  men  in  this  country  ?  "  I  am  sure  there 
are  not  many  in  the  States,  Collyer  is  so  very  Saxon  in 
type  —  the  ideal  of  a  Yorkshireman.  I  knew  him  at  once 
from  a  glance  at  the  pulpit,  for  there  is  a  poor  likeness 
of  him  affixed  to  the  volume  of  sermons.  He  has  all  the 
qualifications  of  the  orator  :  the  robust  voice,  never  loud, 
though  one  knows  he  could  "  shout  for  the  battle  "  with 
the  best ;  the  most  varied  expression,  and  speaking  frame, 
though  with  little  gesture.  As  for  his  smile,  and  the 
sweet,  pure  benignity  of  the  finely  cut  face  (no  whiskers 
or  beard)  no  words  can  tell  them.  It  was  the  highest 
treat  I  could  have  had,  and  more  not  less  than  I  who  love 
his  sermons  expected.  Archie  will  have  told  you  the  sub- 
ject. But  for  my  hand  I  must  I  think  have  written  down 
what  I  remember  of  the  sermon,  which  was  on  Progress  : 
Terah  setting  out  from  Ur  to  Canaan,  —  the  impulse  in 
the  old  man  which  led  him  just  one  day's  journey  to 
Haran  becoming  in  the  son  "  inspiration,"  —  the  overrul- 
ing purpose  they  called  "  God  speaking  to  Abraham,"  who 
did  reach  Canaan.  At  the  end  of  a  discourse  that  none 
of  us  will  ever  forget,  such  a  burst  of  immortal  hope  !  I 
begged  Archie  to  go  and  speak  to  him.  He  had  been  at 
Patterdale,  or  through  it,  but  had  had  no  time  to  call.  I 
had  a  few  words  with  him.  He  said  to  me :  "  Your  hus- 
band's works  were  of  great  service  to  me  several  years 
ago."  Is  that  not  interesting  ?  The  lonely  thinker  in  si- 
lence striking  out  the  electric  spark  that  helped  to  kindle 
this  and  many  a  torch  borne  by  strong  hands  through 
crowds,  and  lighting  the  steps  of  many  who  have  turned 
from  the  old  guidance.  Collyer  was  so  reverent,  so  ten- 
der, to  those  who  get  no  further  than  Haran  ;  so  thankful 
they  got  there  !  As  soon  as  we  left  the  chapel  we  went 

to  see  Mrs.  C ,  who  has  had  a  kind  of  fit,  but  was 

never  more  coherent  or  agreeable.     She  had  not  expected 


"HE   RESTORETH  MY  SOUL:1  543 

to  see  me  again  till  "  Novimber."  I  did  not  tell  her  how 
doubtful  that  was.  She  asked  much  for  you,  paid  her 
usual  tribute  to  Archie,  and  gave  me  a  summary  of  her 
faith,  which  is  much  my  own ;  and  it  was  an  affectionate 
and  satisfactory  last  parting,  should  it  prove  such.  .  .  . 

To  Miss   Violetta  Smith. 

[1878.]  However  people  may  express  their  religious 
convictions,  if  they  have  arrived  at  the  grace  of  self-sur- 
render it  is  well  with  them.  And  this  wisdom,  this 
"  sweet  reasonableness,"  is  attained  by  persons  of  very 
various  ways  of  thinking.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  so 
many  of  us  (it  was  so  with  me)  seem  to  consider  happi- 
ness, enjoyment,  satisfaction,  a  right ;  and  to  such  as  are 
much  indulged  in  childhood  and  youth,  life  has  some  very 
hard  lessons  to  teach.  The  sweet  simple  readiness  with 

which has  given  up  the  London  rooms  and  all  her 

activities  there  to  nurse  this  sick  cousin  strikes  me  as 
really  beautiful.  Not  the  doing  the  thing,  but  the  doing 
it  without  hint  of  self-sacrifice. 

To  Miss  Edith  Wrench. 

[1879.]  Yesterday  was  to  me  a  very  solemn  day,  the 
beginning  of  a  new  and  very  probably  the  last  decade. 
Life  so  nearly  over  —  that  is  not  a  sad  thought,  a  grave 
one  and  a  tender  —  not  sad,  often  very  sweet. 

Joy  is  I  suppose  our  native  element,  yet  sorrow  too  is 
borne  in  the  same  wonderful  way. 

This  is  a  gift  indeed,  the  work  of  your  own  hands,  the 
only  gift  that  is  wholly  pleasant.  One's  work  and  one's 
love,  these  are  precious  —  not  so  the  money-bought  offer- 
ing, though  love  makes  that  sweet. 

Ithel  dined  here  to-day,  and  I  wrote  to  Dr.  Peddie  to 


544  LUCY  SMITH. 

request  the  favour  of  his  unequalled  dog's  company  for 
half  an  hour,  and  Ithel  did  appreciate  him.  All  dogs 
seem  poor  and  contemptible  in  comparison  with  him.  He 
followed  Archie  at  once,  and  was  quite  reluctant  to  go 
away,  so  pleased  was  he  with  biscuits  and  attention  here. 
Dear  little  Birnam  was  madly  jealous,  but  Dandy's  tem- 
per and  magnanimity  made  a  quarrel  impossible. 

A.'s  gifts  are  precious  things.  M.'s  gift  of  rejoicing  in 
them  without  any  drawback  of  personal  dissatisfaction  is 
higher  and  more  precious  still. 

At  the  Cathedral  the  other  day,  when  the  lovely  142d 
and  145th  Psalms  were  being  sung  to  a  sweet  minor  chant, 
that  verse,  "  Bring  my  soul  out  of  prison  that  I  may  give 
thanks  to  thy  name,"  came  home  to  me  with  such  vivid- 
ness that  I  preached  myself  a  sermon  on  it  forthwith. 
Out  of  the  prison  of  selfishness,  of  any  and  every  kind  — 
so  only  can  I  be  free  enough  for  the  spirit  of  thankful- 
ness. Liberty  comes  only  from  the  surrender  of  personal 
desire.  Out  of  the  prison  of  embarrassment  —  no  liberty 
while  we  owe  any  man  anything.  Oh,  the  prison  of  self, 
and  thought  pacing  to  and  fro  within  those  narrow  limits ! 
Well,  selfishness  has  many  disguises,  and  long  after  we 
have  surmounted  the  want  of  having,  we  may  be  en- 
thralled by  the  want  of  doing.  So  that  the  right  thing 
be  done,  "  whether  it  be  they  or  I,  no  matter !  " 

I  really  think,  my  Edith,  you  and  I  are  as  fortunately 
constituted  as  any  two  I  know.  So  little  real  pain,  so 
much  power  of  admiring  and  even  enjoying.  In  short, 
we  have  all  the  facilities  for  forgetting  self,  which  no  one 
can  do  in  bodily  distress. 

Your  snowdrops  make  a  lovely  little  mound,  in  plate 
and  tumbler,  on  the  table,  and  yesterday  I  brought  in  a 


"HE  RESTORETH  MY  SOUL:1  545 

pot  of  jonquil,  which  breathes  exquisite  fragrance  into  my 
face.  .  .  .  How  little  the  majority  of  us  know  of  this 
fair  world,  how  narrow  our  circle  necessarily.  But  we 
have  still  much  to  enjoy,  as  my  Edith  with  her  happy  na- 
ture knows ;  and  for  me  —  /  have  had  all  and  abounded, 
and  been  blessed  up  to  my  fullest  capacities  of  receiving 
blessedness. 

I  know  that  when  we  are  ailing  and  all-overish  it  is 
very  difficult  not  to  give  way.  But  that  is  the  very  worst 
thing  in  the  world  for  us,  and  those  are  our  best  helpers 
who  brace  us  against  this. 

Convalescence  is  a  very  trying  time,  there  is  so  much 
danger  of  our  becoming  exacting  and  self -occupied.  I 
have  heard  many  say  that  illness  is  not  so  difficult,  and  I 
can  quite  understand  it.  I  should  like  to  know,  dear  one, 
that  you  are  continuing  to  give  as  little  trouble  as  possi- 
ble. You  know  when  I  was  with  you  I  wanted  a  table  by 
the  bedside,  that  you  might  reach  whatever  you  could  ; 
and  this  for  your  own  sake,  because  I  seemed  to  divine 
that  your  danger  now  would  be  want  of  effort.  It  has 
been  your  unselfishness,  your  thought  for  others,  that  has 
so  endeared  you  to  many.  I  am  sure,  dear,  you  will  not 
think  these  hints  unkind.  I  should  exhort  myself  in  the 
same  manner  were  I  in  your  condition.  I  should  be  so 
afraid  of  giving  way.  I  am  so  afraid  of  it !  All  my  life 
is  an  effort  now.  To  get  up  at  all  is  hard  work.  I  would 
rather  lie  in  bed  and  think  my  one  loved  thought.  It  is 
all  hard  work,  but  one  must  try  to  throw  one's  self  out  of 
self  or  one  would  not  continue  sane.  That  is  what  we  all 
have  to  strive  after  —  to  be  and  keep  sane,  in  other  words 
not  self-concentrated. 

It  is  very  sweet  to  bear  well  a  hint  about  one's  hair. 
In  the  days  of  my  youth,  almost  every  friend  I  had  wanted 


546  LUCY  SMITH. 

some  change  in  mine,  and  it  always  made  me  savage  to 
them  !  Well  do  I  remember  one  day  when  I  was  young 
and  had  plaited  coronals  of  which  I  thought  rather  well, 
and  in  place  of  the  visitor  I  expected  in  came  your  dear 
Aunt  M.  and  said,  "  How  very  ill  you  look,  Lucy !  I 
don't  mean  in  health ! "  So  you  see  I  can  understand 
the  unpleasantness  of  these  hints.  Ah,  dear,  in  my  fer- 
vid, impetuous  youth  I  used  to  have  a  touch  of  that  Amer- 
ican— 

"John  P. 

Robinson,  he 
Thought  the  world  would  go  right  if  he  hollered  out  Gee  ! " 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE   MOUNTAIN   RILL. 

A  CHARACTERISTIC  picture  of  Lucy»Sinith  is  given  in 
a  private  letter  written  not  long  after  her  death,  by  her 
husband's  niece  Clara  —  Mrs.  George  Willett. 

"How  can  I  make  you  understand  what  that  double 
grave  —  for  I  cannot  separate  them,  my  perfect  pair  — 
has  taken  from  my  life  ?  I  seem  now  to  have  lost  him 
afresh,  for  while  I  had  her,  my  "  legacy  "  as  she  loved  to 
call  herself  to  me,  I  always  felt  I  had  a  large  part  of  him 
left.  His  last  message,  spoken  by  her  to  me  with  a  so- 
lemnity I  can  never  forget,  4  Give  her  my  great  love  '  — 
was  a  precious  gift  indeed.  And  you  will  let  me  say  that 
no  word  of  praise  she  ever  wrote  of  this  remarkable  man 
was  in  the  least  exaggerated  ;  he  was  in  every  respect  as 
singularly  rare  and  refined  a  character  as  herself.  Here 
there  was  a  bond  of  sympathy  between  herself  and  me 
greater  perhaps  than  with  any  other,  for  he  and  I  were 
deeply  attached,  and  she  delighted  in  my  enthusiastic 
girlish  devotion  to  him.  How  she  loved  to  call  herself 
his  '  reflection,'  and  how  we,  knowing  her  own  intense  in- 
dividuality, used  to  smile,  and  let  her  say  it ! 

u  She  was  a  woman  remarkably  free  from  all  the  little- 
ness of  women.  There  was  a  breadth  and  grandeur  about 
her  view  of  things,  as  refreshing  as  a  mountain  breeze. 
She  would  generally  put  any  topic  one  brought  before  her 
for  counsel  in  an  entirely  new  light ;  for  instance,  once 
when  I  told  her  with  some  distress  my  three-year  old  boy 
had  stolen  a  piece  of  sugar,  she  at  once  replied,  'Of 
course,  the  child  requires  sweet  things  —  you  must  see 


648  LUCY  SMITH. 

that  he  has  them.'  And  at  another  time  when  I  told  her 
of  some  one  who  had  taken  a  district  for  the  purpose  of 
4  self -denial,'  how  eloquent  she  was  in  disapprobation  ! 
How  clearly  she  proved  to  me  the  *wrongness'  of  the 
whole  idea  from  the  beginning,  and  ended  with  :  '  If  you 
don't  feel  drawn  to  go  and  see  the  poor  woman  from  sim- 
ple love  and  interest,  don' t  go.  It  is  an  insult  to  visit  a 
poor  woman  for  the  sake  of  self-denial  to  yourself !  ' 

"  My  dear  aunt  Lucy  possessed  a  something  in  addition 
to  that  keen  sympathetic  insight  on  which  I  need  not  en- 
large to  you.  It  was  a  power  peculiarly  her  own  of  put- 
ting one  in  a  good  humour  with  one's  self.  Hers  was  the 
tact  of  bringing  to  the  front  one's  best  and  brightest ; 
and  I  fully  believe  that  many  others  will  share  with  me 
the  odd  and  depressing,  perhaps  very  foolish  but  none  the 
less  real  feeling,  that  I  shall  never  be  quite  so  4  nice  ' 
again,  deprived  of  her  sweet  and  blessing  encouragement, 
and  radiant  mantle  of  all-covering  love. 

"  She  had  the  gift  of  putting  into  the  choicest  and  often 
most  original  and  piquant  language  exactly  what  she 
meant  to  say.  How  often  we  would  exclaim,  '  Nobody 
could  have  said  that  but  you !  '  Both  she  and  her  hus- 
band were  great  coiners  of  words,  and  had  quite  a  little 
vocabulary  of  their  own  for  the  little  things  of  every-day 
use  —  things  hallowed  by  their  blessed  touch,  and  by  the 
utter  unworldliness  of  everything  they  said  and  did. 

"  Hers  were  strong  prejudices ;  as  a  young  woman,  I 
believe,  very  strong  ones.  She  told  me  that  he  used  to 
say  to  her,  '  Lucy,  you  are  too  exacting.'  It  was  curious 
to  observe  during  her  recent  years  of  widowhood  how  any 
tendency  to  intolerance  in  her  grew  less  and  less.  This 
she  attributed  to  the  influence  of  his  teaching.  During 
her  rare  and  precious  visits  to  our  house,  I  did  my  best, 
as  you  may  suppose,  to  weed  away  all  comers  that  might 
be  uncongenial  to  her ;  and  during  her  last  visit  she  spoke 
of  this  gradual  change  in  herself,  and  apropos  of  one 


THE  MOUNTAIN  RILL.  549 

guest  said, 4  When  I  met  him  before  he  did  not  please  me, 
but  now,  do  you  know,  I  rather  like  him  ! ' 

"  She  could  detect  with  unerring  fidelity  the  true  from 
the  false,  and  when  she  said  with  her  peculiar  nod,  '  Ah, 
my  dear,  I  have  diagnosed  him  !  '  we  knew  it  was  useless 
to  ask  her  to  reconsider  the  verdict." 

Mrs.  Ruck  writes  of  "  a  quality  which  I  think  one  of 
the  most  uncommon  of  her  gifts  —  a  transparent  openness 
of  nature  which  let  her  share  every  thought  with  those 
she  loved,  and  an  absence  of  suspicion  which  banished 
keys  and  let  letters  lie  about.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
way  in  which  she  spoke  most  confidentially  to  me  during 
a  drive,  in  utter  disregard  of  the  old  man  on  the  box,  who 
she  said  was  deaf!  And  often  in  omnibuses  people  have 
gazed  at  her  whilst  she,  rapt  in  a  subject  in  which  she 
was  deeply  interested,  expounded  it  to  me,  in  utter  obliv- 
ion of  those  around  her,  or  entire  confidence  in  their 
friendliness !  " 

To  Mrs.  Lorimer. 

WORSLEY  VILLA,  VENTNOR,  March  9, 1879. 

It  seems  long,  very  dear  one,  since  I  had  your  little 
note  with  its  happy  tidings.  When,  or  i/*,  there  comes  a 
disengaged  half-hour  and  the  inclination,  you  will  send 
me  a  few  lines.  But  I  know  well  how  more  and  more  the 
inclination  so  to  employ  leisure  does  not  come.  There  is 
more  rest  in  some  book,  and  when  we  want  rest,  there  is 
not  the  impulse  to  give  out  but  the  need  to  absorb,  imbibe 
some  great  thought,  some  words  of  "  more  life  and  fuller 
life."  I  am  becoming  very  inert  as  to  letter-writing,  and 
I  am  not  one  of  the  busy  who  have  any  claim  to  rest. 
However,  this  evening  after  a  good  strong  cup  of  tea  I 
like  to  tell  you  how  soothingly  the  waves  break  under  the 
window  here,  and  that  beautiful  colors  have  just  faded  out 
of  the  sky.  This  house  is  about  a  hundred  feet  above  the 
sea,  and  as  I  sit  at  the  writing-table  just  out  of  the  pl< 


550  LUCY  SMITH. 

ant  large  window  —  projecting  but  not  a  bow  —  I  seem 
hanging  over  the  quiet  misty  waters,  which  are  blending 
with  the  gray  evening  sky.  It  has  been  a  lovely  day,  and 
Mary  and  I  had  a  sweet  walk  along  the  cliff  to  lovely 
Bonchurch,  where  the  old  church  and  churchyard,  both  un- 
used for  thirty  years,  are  exquisitely  situated  very  near 
the  waves,  and  with  great  trees  that  "  stretch  forth  their 
branches  to  the  sea."  I  have  not  yet  been  in  the  church- 
yard, where  I  want  to  go  to  stand  by  John  Sterling's 
grave  —  to  me  notable  as  that  of  the  man  my  husband 
thought  so  eminently  lovable.  I  expect  you  all  much 

to  admire  Miss .     When  I  saw  her  she  was  a  little 

girl,  with  grand  calm  brow  and  eyes,  very  like  her  mother 
William  thought,  and  the  father  felt  the  likeness  would 
help  him  to  live  on  "  till  the  morning  of  the  resurrection." 
It  was  in  the  early  days,  early  years,  of  loss  that  he  said 
this.  How  well  I  remember  it !  the  sunny  Brighton  es- 
planade, on  which  he  walked  with  his  little  girl,  and  his 
upward  glance ;  and  I,  who  had  my  husband  with  me, 
could  so  well  believe  that  such  loss  was  irremediable. 
Well  —  I  am  sure  that  "  women  cannot  judge  for  men," 
and  that  some  minds  do  continue  loyally  to  harmonize  two 
paramount  loves. 

I  am  growing  so  creaky  and  rheumatic,  and  feel  so  very 
like  the  large  sea  crayfish  in  one  of  the  melancholy  tanks 
of  (I  must  say)  the  very  melancholy  Edinburgh  Aqua- 
rium !  If  you  go  there,  watch  him  moving  his  stiff  joints, 
and  give  me  a  sigh  !  Unless  these  symptoms  depart  as 
suddenly  as  they  came  on,  I  fear  I  shall  never  reach  a 
mountain-side  any  more.  I  am  planning  a  week  in  Lon- 
don in  April,  and  then  to  return  with  my  brother  to 
Garthewin  and  spend  the  rest  of  the  month  there.  And 
then  from  Wales  it  is  possible  that  Hessie  Howard  and  I 
may  go  to  Ireland  for  a  short  stay  at  Bundoran.  The  al- 
ternative, which  I  should  like  quite  as  well,  but  judge  less 
pleasant  and  beneficial  for  her,  would  be  going  together  to 


"THE  MOUNTAIN  RILL.  551 

Patterdale  quite  early  in  May.  I  am  reading  sermons  of 
Pic  ton's  that  would  interest  you  I  know.  Good-by,  my 
dear  one.  I  seldom  now  write  as  long  a  letter  as  this. 

Mary   ,    who    is    fortunate    enough   to   be   reading 

"  Lorna  Doone  "  for  the  first  time,  sends  her  love,  and  give 
mine  to  the  dear  Netty. 

To  Mrs.  A.  Constable. 

PATTERDALE,  June  11,  1879. 

.  .  .  Think  of  the  poor  dear  man  I  was  sitting  with  last 
night.  At  the  age  of  fifty-five,  he  told  me,  he  "  was  as 
good  a  man  as  ever  he  was  in  his  life,  and  as  up  to  a  hard 

day's   work."      Then  to    be   driven  over  by . 

There's  a  trial  for  you.  "I  could  have  wished,"  he  said, 
"  to  have  gone  on  working,  for  we  were  so  comfortable  ; 
and  it  soon  goes,  does  the  money,  when  you  can't  work." 
All  the  little  honest  savings  melted  away,  to  say  nothing 
of  health  ruined  and  incessant  pain.  And  his  poor  good 
wife  has  two  dreadful  fingers,  and  if  they  have  not  to  be 
taken  off  it  will  be  a  mercy.  Having  been  the  clerk,  this 
worthy  has  contracted  a  habit  of  using  sonorous  language, 
and  enjoys  talking.  I  was  so  glad  I  went  in !  He  was 
very  fine  on  selfishness.  "  When  a  man  loses  conscience, 
you  see,  he  comes  to  think  nowt  except  about  himself,  and 
when  a  man  thinks  of  nowt  but  himself,  what  is  he  but 
an  animal?"  "Oh,  much  worse !"  I  pleaded,  for  with 
sweet  Pup  beside  me  I  felt  an  animal  was  a  pure  delight ; 
and  he  conceded  the  point  —  they  were  worse.  It  would 
have  been  a  pleasure  to  leave  an  offering  of  respect,  but 
I  may  screw  it  out  of  another  week.  This  afternoon  I 
must  take  five  shillings  to  Grisedale.  I  had  a  feeling 
that  the  blind  man  felt  empty-handed  visitors  took  an  im- 
perfect view  of  the  case.  Do  you  know  I  believe  myself 
to  have  become  as  if  porous  to  the  consciousness  of  oth- 
ers*? I  am  pretty  sure  I  feel  how  they  are  feeling,  and 
often  get  verifications  long  afterward. 


552  LUCY  SMITH. 


« SEEKEST  THOU  GREAT  THINGS  ?    SEEK  THEM  NOT." 

Little  rill  of  the  mountain  side,  cushioned  with  moss, 

Little  rill  that  a  baby's  step  safely  might  cross  ; 

If  I  sit  down  beside  you  and  listen  for  long, 

I  can  just  catch  a  gurgle,  a  tinkle,  a  song, 

Grow  distinct  tho'  so  fairy  faint  — almost  'twould  seem 

Like  an  echo  of  music  once  heard  in  a  dream. 

Little  rill,  not  far  from  you  a  stronger  stream  falls 
Sheer  down  to  the  valley  through  steep  rocky  walls  ; 
With  a  rapture  of  sound  and  a  splendour  of  foam, 
It  bids  its  farewell  to  its  lone  early  home  ; 
And  you,  if  you  only  could  reach  it,  might  blend 
With  its  triumph,  its  daring,  its  course,  and  its  end. 

But  I  think,  little  rill,  you  will  scarce  get  so  far, 

For  the  mosses  half  choke  you  up  here  where  you  are  ; 

And  beyond  I  can  see  that  the  rushes  grow  high, 

With  their  roots  in  a  marsh  and  their  stems  stiff  and  dry. 

They  will  need  and  exhaust  you,  you  poor  little  rill, 

You  will  end  there  unnoticed,  your  song  will  be  still. 

Never  mind,  little  rill,  moss  and  rushes  will  grow 

All  the  greener  and  stronger  because  of  your  flow  ; 

And  your  cool,  quiet  current,  tho'  mostly  unheard, 

May  yield  draughts  of  fresh  strength  to  some  wing-weary  bird  ; 

And,  whene'er  for  a  brief  space  unshadowed  you  run, 

You  can  catch  and  give  back  the  warm  glints  of  the  sun. 

And  the  strong  stream  you  hear  —  tho'  it  cannot  hear  you  — 

Is  born  just  as  you  are  —  from  rainfall  and  dew  ; 

And,  for  all  its  importance,  its  foam,  and  its  roar, 

You  are  closely  akin  —  't  is  not  other,  but  more. 

Nay  —  is  there  indeed  any  great,  any  small, 

In  the  sight  of  the  INFINITE  SOURCE  of  us  all  ? 


To  Mr.  A.  Constable. 

...  I  have  been  very  busy  over  my  "  Critical  Ideal- 
ism," and  have  sat  all  the  morning  over  it  in  the  little 
room.  The  end  of  it  went  off  to-day,  and  the  proof  of 


THE  MOUNTAIN  RILL.  553 

the  first  part  may  come  to-morrow.  I  must  tell  you  of 
an  angel  of  beauty  I  saw  in  Patterdale  church  last  even- 
ing. It  had  been  a  day  of  frantic  showers,  but  in  the 
evening  it  cleared,  and  Sophy  and  I  sallied  forth.  I 
think  some  magnetic  influence  must  have  warned  me,  for 
I  don't  often  turn  round,  but  when  I  did,  two  pews  off 
there  was  a  young  man,  —  not  very  young,  I  should  say 
over  thirty,  —  whose  magnificent  beauty  I  have  no  words 
for.  Much  over  six  feet,  and  broad  in  proportion,  but  it 
was  not  that,  it  was  an  air  of  supreme  distinction,  and  the 
perfection  of  manly  beauty  and  strength.  His  hand,  with 
a  very  handsome  ring  on  the  little  finger,  was  whiter  than 
any  woman's  that  I  know,  and  very  plump,  which  gener- 
ally I  do  not  like,  yet  you  felt  that  he  could  have  felled  a 
bull.  His  face  had  perhaps  rather  too  full  a  jaw  ;  utterly 
straight  dark  eyebrows,  fine  features  —  but  I  return  to 
the  distinction ;  you  felt  as  if  centuries  of  high  breeding 
must  have  been  required  to  produce  this  patrician.  Per- 
fectly formed  head,  clipped  as  closely  as  scissors  could 
clip,  and  such  a  splendid  bass  voice.  Under  pretext  of 
getting  the  light  on  my  hymn-book,  I  was  obliged  to  turn 
and  listen,  and  also  catch  glimpses  of  his  splendour,  which 
moved  me  like  some  military  music  —  the  march  in 
"  Eli."  Sophy  indorses  all  I  say. 

To  Miss  Violetta,  Smith. 

[1879.]  Oh,  Vi  dear,  how  I  love  and  prize  these  sol- 
itary days  !  I  know  I  could  not  be  always  alone,  but  it  is 
my  best.  He  is  so  near.  I  commune  with  him.  I  feel 
he  loves  me  best  alone !  Sunday  was  one  of  his  days.  I 
read  so  intently,  feeling  "the  footsteps  of  his  life  it? 

mine."     In  the  evening  I  went  to  church,  and  Mr. 

preached  so  well  on  growth  in  grace.  Is  it  not  indeed  all 
that  we  have  to  do,  all  that  is  worth  doing,  and  does  it  not 
redeem  all  lives  from  tedium  and  emptiness,  —  this  desire, 
this  resolve,  to  grow  ?  I  think  I  never  realized  more  that 


554  LUCY  SMITH. 

it  is  the  one  thing  needful,  without  any  ulterior  conse- 
quences ;  but  I  still  think  dogmatic  denial  of  a  further 
life  would  be  fatal  to  the  Ideal.  We  need,  as  your  sweet 
friend  says,  to  believe  that  it  will  be  reached.  It  is  those 
who  help  us  and  whom  we  help  upward  that  we  give  our 
best  love  to. 

To  the  Rev.  Allan  Menzies. 

EDINBURGH,  1879. 

I  have  been  wishing  to  write  to  you,  dear  Mr.  Meuzies, 
ever  since  I  heard  Mr.  McFarlan  preach  on  Sunday  last, 
and  your  note  has  quickened  the  impulse.  Archie,  Mary, 
and  I  went  in  the  afternoon,  because  I  had  a  desire  to 
hear  a  lecture  on  Giordano  Bruno,  and  Archie  took  my 
place  and  read  one  of  Martineau's  sermons  to  Mrs.  Stir- 
ling. I  was  deeply  interested  in  Mr.  McFarlan's  sermon, 
almost  from  the  first ;  but  before  long  I  found  that  his 
treatment  of  the  subject,  the  drinking  of  the  cup  Christ 
drank  of,  brought  my  husband's  verses  to  my  mind.  And 
with  him  in  my  thought,  my  whole  being,  judge  what  it 
was  to  hear  the  speaker  quote  two  verses  of  his  ;  repeat 
them  so  earnestly,  so  feelingly!  This  strangely  sweet 
and  solemn  music  rang  through  the  church,  and  must  I 
.think  have  impressed  all  who  were  gathered  there.  On 
me  the  effect  was  almost  overwhelming.  It  seemed  like 
an  instant's  rending  of  the  veil,  so  thin,  so  inexorably  im- 
pervious ;  seemed  an  utter  surprise,  and  yet  —  what  I 
was  waiting  for !  I  think  this  contradictory  feeling  be- 
longs to  all  deep  emotion.  The  whole  sermon  was  full  of 
noblest  teaching ;  "  salvation  not  a  matter  of  crowns  or 
thrones,  but  of  fellowship  with  Christ's  self -surrender," 
I  think  those  very  words  occurred  ;  that  was  the  spirit  of 
the  whole,  and,  one  felt,  the  spirit  of  the  man  who  spoke 
so  fervently  and  so  modestly.  I  was  obliged  to  write  a 
few  lines  to  your  dear  sister  at  once.  But  when  Mr. 
McFarlan  called  in  the  evening,  I  could  not  see  him  ;  I 


THE  MOUNTAIN  RILL.  555 

had  felt  too  deeply.  Mary  wrote  too  to  your  sister,  and 
she  has  had  a  most  delightful  reply.  I  wish  that  they 
were  nearer  to  each  other,  and  that  the  friendship  could 
be  a  frequent  source  of  strength  and  cheer  to  this  dear 
delicate  plant.  But  after  all,  what  we  really  need  does 
"  gravitate  to  us."  That  I  believe,  in  spite  of  the  contra- 
dictory regrets  now  and  then  at  the  divided  growth  of 
some  natures  because  of  the  adverse  winds  in  youth  or  the 
want  of  sun.  I  have  ceased  blaming  in  the  old  angry 
way,  as  though  it  was  their  own  personal  perversity  that 
led  people  astray. 

How  it  touches  me  to  hear  that  standing  by  our  grave 
you  thought  of  him  as  not  there,  but  risen  and  living. 
How  glad  I  am  you  like  the  nieces  in  whom  he  took  so 
true  an  interest,  the  kind  sister-in-law  for  whom  he  had  so 
true  a  regard.  Your  visit  was  more  to  them  than  you 
could  easily  realize.  For  it  is  the  very  condition  of  moral 
influence  that  it  should  be  quite  unconscious.  Still,  as  it 
is  a  fact,  you  must  be  a  little  glad  to  know  that  you  have 
helped  us  all,  and  will  help. 

The  inclosed  note  from  Mr.  M came  to-day  after  a 

long  silence.  For  after  that  May  letter  that  brought  me 
darkness,  instead  of  light,  I  had  not  spirits  to  write  again 
for  months,  and  I  had  to  wait  too  for  months.  I  am  sure 

from  all  I  hear  of  young  M that  he  is  delightful. 

Perhaps  you  may  see  him  one  of  these  days.  I  quite  under- 
stand what  his  father  says  of  Mr.  Martineau's  new  volume, 
but  his  noble  essays  on  Modern  Materialism  show  that  he 
is  abreast  with  all  the  schools  of  modern  thinking.  Only 
his  emotions  yearn  ever  to  the  same  Ideal,  yearn  perhaps 
increasingly.  But  I  have  wondered  rather  at  his  treating 
certain  of  the  miracles  reported  as  though  perhaps  they 
did  happen,  and  at  all  events  we  might  make  them  mean 
this  or  that  spiritual  lesson,  exemplify  some  moral  law. 
In  all  this  he  does  give  an  uncertain  sound  ;  does  not  help 
some  who  need  to  hold  very  firmly  some  very  simple 


556  LUCY  SMITH. 

creed,  and  cannot  take  as  historical  fact  what  it  was  quite 
easy  to  accept  as  such  not  so  many  years  ago.  Turning 
for  instance  to  Roden  Noel's  paper  in  the  January  "  The- 
ological," after  reading  Martineau's  sermons,  one  feels  as 
though  looking  through  a  glass  darkly  still,  but  one  of 
wider  range,  sweeping  a  far  vaster  f each  of  the  illimitable. 
But  is  not  that  a  kind  of  verbal  contradiction  ?  Never 
mind  ;  we  must  use  our  own  words,  even  when  we  know 
they  do  not  and  cannot  express  what  is.  But  Mr. 

M 's   letter   is   very  interesting.      I    feel   as   if  the 

prayer  that  seems  to  concentrate  in  itself  all  the  agonies 
of  the  ages  —  "If  it  be  possible  "  —  went  straighter  to 
the  mark  than  any  even  of  David's  cries  ;  and  that  the 
image  of  divine  mercy  given  in  the  Prodigal  Son  were 
still  and  for  each  the  sweetest  source  of  hope.  I  think 
having  so  long  contemplated  mystery  and  supernatural- 
ness  has  hindered  for  many,  who  can't  do  that,  the  full 
perception  of  the  tenderness  and  brotherhood.  I  've  al- 
ways thought  it  strange  that  in  his  long  list  of  men  to 
revere  and  worship  Comte  fails  to  give  —  Christ. 

To  Mrs.  Haughton. 

Nov.  17,  1879.  This  sorrow  that  you  used  to  think 
excessive,  dear  friend,  is  the  root  of  all  that  any  love  in 
me,  the  source  of  all  aspiration,  the  stimulus  to  all  good. 
It  is  the  love,  undying  till  I  die,  and  perhaps,  perhaps ! 

To  Miss  Edith  Wrench. 

1879. 

Mary  thinks  I  wrote  to  you  a  fortnight  ago,  and  if  so 
the  goats  had  not  arrived.1  Jane's  has  been  brought  here 

1  She  had  been  much  impressed  by  the  difficulty  experienced  by 
the  inhabitants  about  Patterdale  (as  in  many  country  districts  in 
England)  in  getting  a  proper  supply  of  milk.  She  therefore,  through 
her  brother  in  Wales,  where  goats  are  commonly  kept,  imported 
several,  more  than  once. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  RILL.  557 

this  evening  for  her  and  Mrs.  Dobson's  inspection,  and 
the  dear  creature  came  up-stairs,  and  ate  bread  from  our 
hands,  and  looked  about  her  with  utmost  discretion.  Jane 
said,  "  How  Miss  W.  would  have  liked  to  see  her  !  "  In- 
deed she  is  a  perfect  beauty,  very  like  a  deer,  with  a 
broad  black  stripe  down  the  brown  back,  and  a  quite 
black  head  and  face,  with  beautiful  horns.  You  can  im- 
agine how  Jane's  young  brother  doats  upon  her,  and  in- 
deed all  Glen  Rhydding  visits  her,  pets  and  feeds.  Billy 
lives  at  Quarry  Bank,  and  I  saw  him  this  morning.  The 
beauty  of  Place  Fell's  snowy  top  against  the  cloudless  blue 
attracted  me  so  that  I  set  out  at  half  past  ten.  I  found 
Birnarn  sitting  or  rather  lying  in  the  field  next  but  one  to 
Quarry  Bank.  What  takes  him  there  no  one  knows.  Ap- 
parently he  was  only  enjoying  the  view  ;  however,  he  was 
delighted  to  join  me,  and  soon  the  four  dogs  ran  to  meet 
me  —  my  Rap,  in  an  ecstacy  ;  and  then  Billy  came  run- 
ning up  too,  for  he  is  a  most  familiar  goat,  and  expects 
bread  given  him,  indeed  knocks  at  the  door  with  his  horns 
when  he  wants  it  specially.  Well,  dear,  excited  by  Burn- 
aby,  who  cannot  endure  goats,  the  other  dogs  barked  as 
he  did,  and  the  goat  butted  and  bleated,  and  the  hubbub 
was  such  that  I  was  glad  to  rush  into  Quarry  Bank,  and 
there  the  dear  little  woman  had  much  to  tell  me.  There 
is  something  or  other  to  do  daily,  and  this  might  grow 
beyond  my  resources.  I  walked  bravely  to  the  top  of  the 
hill,  but  where  the  path  ends  the  frozen  snow  began  and 
was  far  too  slippery  for  me.  Nothing  for  it  but  coming 
back,  but  I  was  high  enough  to  see  Helvellyn  looking  glo- 
rious in  his  white  mantle,  and  oh,  how  I  "  thanked  God 
for  the  mountains."  Sweet  Rap  would  come  with  nie,  so 
dined  here.  He  is  quite  well  now,  and  I  am  very  fond  of 
him,  with  his  gentle  loving  gaze,  and  bright  smile  —  for 
my  Edith  knows  it  is  quite  a  smile  that  shows  the  perfect 
teeth. 


558  LUCY  SMITH. 

To  Miss  Edith  Wrench 

1880. 

I  was  much  taken  up  last  year  with  the  conception  of  a 
room  in  the  school-house  here  being  made  into  a  reading- 
room  for  the  men  of  the  township,  who  have  no  meeting- 
place  except  the  public-house.  And  drunkenness  is  the 
scourge  of  the  place.  Of  course  if  they  do  go  to  the  pub- 
lic house  they  will  drink.  I  had  spoken  to  the  policeman 
before  I  left,  and  told  him  to  see  what  could  be  done,  but 

when  on  my  return  he  referred  me  to ,  I  gave  up  the 

idea,  feeling  I  was  too  poor  and  powerless  to  carry  it  out. 
However  on  Saturday  the  idea  revived,  and  A.  R.  and  I 
are  going  to  make  a  round  and  see  whether  a  sufficient 
number  take  to  the  notion  and  are  ready  to  subscribe 
three  pence  a  week,  to  make  it  at  all  hopeful  to  move 
further.  About  ten  shillings  a  week  would  I  think  cover 

the    expenses,  and  surely  Mr.  would  help  on  the 

plan  if  the  trustees  of  the  school  consented.  I  promised 
five  pounds  last  winter  towards  books,,  etc.,  and  really 

it  is  wonderful  how  I  scramble  on,  though  never 

pays  or  will,  and  the  reading-room  subscription  would  be 
annual,  so  long  as  one  lives  and  has  anything  to  live  on. 

To  Mrs.  Haughton. 

[Dec.  20,  1879.  After  speaking  of  a  sermon.]  I  write 
also  on  the  other  side  of  the  page  thoughts  that  it  sug- 
gested as  I  walked  up  a  lonely  mountain  valley  this  after- 
noon, —  walked  in  deep  shadow  and  bitter  frost,  while 
the  opposite  side  glowed  in  the  rosy  haze  of  a  winter 
sunset. 

From  the  still  sphere  where  dwells  my  highest  hope, 
Stand  off,  I  pray  you,  nor  disturb  the  air  ! 

Lest,  while  you  boast  it  living,  it  should  die, 
And  I  lose  all,  whose  all  is  centred  there. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  RILL.  559 

Bring  me  no  arguments,  no  reasoned  proof ; 

How  if  their  weakness  cloud  that  sacred  trust  ? 
Leave  it  to  God  alone  to  mark  its  growth 

And  keep  it  deathless  —  till  I  turn  to  dust. 

Nor  is  this  all  —  though  more  I  dare  not  say,  — 

Words  would  but  marshal  thoughts  to  endless  strife; 

Enough,  if,  cherished  in  my  being's  core, 
The  silent  hope  may  mould  the  lowly  life. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THIS    FRIENDLY    WORLD. 

To  Lady  Eastlake. 

23  MELVILLE  STREET,  EDINBURGH,  January  28,  1880. 
WHAT  a  picture  of  endurance  and  defiance  of  all 
bodily  ills  these  letters  of  Charles  Dickens  give.  There 
may  perhaps  be  too  many  of  them  given.  It  is  scarce 
reverent  to  preserve  the  mere  clippings  and  parings  of 
any  mind ;  but  I,  who  am  not  critical,  and  who  always 
felt  Dickens  a  benefactor  —  such  delight  did  those 
monthly  numbers  of  his  bring  into  many  years  of  my  rest- 
less life  —  I  love  the  man  from  first  to  last  with  a  glow 
which  is  the  best  enjoyment  one  can  have.  I  think  that 
is,  of  all  gifts  that  genius  includes,  the  best  —  that  power 
of  awakening  intense  affection  in  the  hearts  of  many  —  it 
is  good  for  the  many !  I  really  lived  in  Dickens's  letters, 
and  I  think  they  helped  my  recovery  from  a  bad  cough 
and  cold.  All  our  ailments  come  from  low  vitality  —  at 
least  such  as  those  and  other  minor  evils,  and  if  we  could 
be  quickened  by  any  intense  emotion  they  would  mostly 
be  conquered.  Perhaps  electricity,  better  understood, 
will  ere  long  do  directly  what  feelings  of  admiration  and 
delight  do  in  a  roundabout  way,  and  in  the  measure  per- 
mitted by  temperament  even  more  than  circumstance. 
"  More  life  and  fuller  life  we  want."  On  Sunday  last  I 
got  some  very  satisfactory  stimulus  of  the  kind  from  a 
volume  of  "  Scotch  Sermons "  now  going  through  the 
press,  to  be  published  by  Macmillan.  I  should  like  you 
to  read  them,  dear  Lady  Eastlake.  To  me  they  appear 
far  in  advance  of  Farrar's  "  Eternal  Hope."  But  then  I 


THIS   FRIENDLY  WORLD.  561 

so  dislike  Farrar's  turgid  elaborate  style,  and  his  position 
seems  to  me  that  of  a  popularizer  of  other  men's  labours, 
without  any  acknowledgment  of  the  fact  that  to  break  up 
the  fallow  ground  and  to  sow  alone,  and  with  a  conscious- 
ness of  the  censure  and  repugnance  of  even  good  men, 
was  a  far  more  arduous  task  than  that  of  coming  in  to 
reap,  nay,  rather  to  glean.  Farrar's  restricted  and  arbi- 
trary liberality  of  view  (I  am  thinking  of  his  St.  Paul)  is, 
however,  the  thin,  very  thin  end  of  the  wedge,  and  so  that 
light  comes  in  through  the  smallest  chink  we  should  be 
glad.  But  in  the  "  Scotch  Sermons  "  the  attitude  of  the 
best  men  is  quite  bold  and  simple,  and  there  is  a  reality 
about  them,  and  a  facing  things  as  they  are  to  the  intel- 
lect of  our  day,  in  full  faith  that  if  we  are  true  to  our 
light  we  need  not  have  any  fear  for  the  consequences,  tho' 
we  may  be  quite  unable  to  foresee  them.  Oh,  dear  Lady 
Eastlake,  to  one  who  has  loved  and  lost  as  you  and  I  have, 
unutterably,  there  really  can  be  no  interests  worth  speak- 
ing or  except  those  of  the  whence  and  the  whither. 

To  Mrs.  A.  Constable. 

CHISTLETON  (CHESTER),  March  3,  1880. 

.  .  .  Birnam's  portrait  excites  rapturous  applause. 
Fanny  Newcome  sees  in  him  her  ideal  dog,  and  all  delight 
in  his  dear  phiz.  Hessie  was  struck  with  my  face  as  it 
passed  her  in  the  railway  carriage ;  "  something  differ- 
ent" which  she  attributes  to  my  freedom  from  cares,  "  a 
peace  and  light "  —  which,  if  it  ever  shine  save  in  her 
kindly  partial  eyes,  comes  from 

"  the  flame 
Which  burns  the  brighter  that  it  burns  unfed," 

And  I  have  had  so  sheltered  a  winter  with  you  and  my 
dear,  dear  Archie  I 


562  LUCY  SMITH. 

To  Miss  Lyon. 

GARTHEWIN,  April  1,  1880. 

The  third  letter  must  be  written  to  my  very  dear  Sophy, 
my  kind  hostess,  my  pleasant  companion  for  so  full  and 
busy  a  fortnight.  How  wonderfully  tranquil  this  place  is, 
and  how  lovely !  To  me,  so  fraught  with  all  memories,  I 
feel  as  if  in  a  trance.  But  through  all  moods  there  runs 
the  thread  of  the  one  dominant  feeling,  and  so  I  know 
that  "  I  am  I,"  which  else  might  seem  doubtful.  My  hus- 
band has  been  with  me  in  this  pleasant  room  —  whence  I 
look  down  into  a  soft  valley,  brimful  of  misty  sunshine, 
and  see  the  busy  rooks,  with  glossy  backs  turned  white  by 
the  light,  fly  to  and  fro  to  their  nests  in  the  fine  old  Scotch 
firs.  No  sound  but  their  cawing,  rather  a  part  of  the 
silence  than  a  noise,  and  the  wild  cry  of  the  pea-fowl, 
who  have  I  hope  certain  knowledge  of  their  own  of  rain 
measurably  near,  and  of  some  softening  of  the  tempera- 
ture. Brownlow  says  "black  frost  last  night."  He  is 
very  pleasant  certainly,  and  we  had  much  talk  driving 

here  yesterday.     And  S is  all  welcome  and  daughter- 

liness,  and  her  light  figure  trips  up  and  down  stairs  so 
easily  one  has  no  scruples.  .  .  .  Pity  is  affection  —  if  not 
of  the  admiring,  never  of  the  contemptuous  kind.  So 
little  makes  us  to  differ !  Some  evil  germ  in  us  might 
have  developed  into  those  proportions,  instead  of  getting, 
through  some  combination  to  one's  self  unknown,  encysted 
in  the  moral  nature  —  comparatively  harmless  —  unless 
there  be  some  subtle  change  in  the  medium.  .  .  .  To- 
morrow I  must  get  up  earlier  and  overtake  more  arrears 
of  letter-writing,  but  this  morning  I  could  indeed  lie  in 
bed  and  look  out  of  the  window  and  find  the  occupations 
of  the  rooks  enough  for  me,  without  any  of  my  own.  The 
first  effect  of  this  place  for  dreaminess  is  inexpressible. 


THIS  FRIENDLY  WORLD.  563 

To  Mrs.  A.  Constable. 

GARTHEWIN,  April  5,  1880. 

How  I  hope  this  soft,  bright  day,  with  grand  clouds, 
intense  sunbursts,  and  sudden,  short-lived  glooms,  finds 
you  bright  and  well,  with  only  happy,  trustful,  thankful 
thoughts ;  the  "  seamy  side,"  which  will  turn  up  now  and 
then,  quite  out  of  view.  There  are  the  dark  days,  when 
everything  seems  to  go  wrong,  but  perhaps  they  are  teach- 
ing us  something.  I  try  to  think  of  them  so  when  they 
come,  which  is  not  often,  because  of  that  steady  light  from 
the  blessed  past,  and  the  great,  infinite  hope,  too  great  for 
grasping.  .  .  . 

You  said,  dear  Archie,  that  you  wished  to  know  my  im- 
pression of  Count  Mamiani's  "  Religione  dell'  Avvenire." 
It  is  full  of  interest  as  the  final  result  of  the  hard  thinking 
throughout  a  long  life  of  a  man  of  noble  intellect  and 
noble  moral  character,  and  seems  to  me  a  valuable  con- 
tribution in  aid  of  the  growth  and  open  acknowledgment 
of  that  simpler  faith  which  in  all  countries  is  occupying 
the  best  minds.  I  do  not  suppose  it  would  be  thought 
convincing  by  materialists ;  but  it  deals  candidly  and 
carefully  with  their  arguments,  while  firmly  adhering  to 
the  dualistic  view,  and  basing  the  belief  in  immortality 
thereon.  I  think  its  chief  interest  lies  in  its  analysis  of 
the  religious  element  as  progressive  and  ordered ;  holding 
(to  quote  words  of  my  husband's)  that  "  there  may  be  a 
normal  development  of  the  human  mind,  according  to 
which  certain  ideas  or  truths  are  generated  and  become 
universal  faiths."  There  are  frequent  references  made  to 
the  author's  previous  work,  and  certain  passages  are  more 
applicable  to  Catholic  than  Protestant  errors.  I  think 
the  book  would  bear  compression.  The  publisher  — 
Fratelli  Treves,  Milan  —  would  have  to  be  communi- 
cated with  by  any  English  firm  entertaining  the  idea  of 
having  it  translated.  How  gladly  and  for  how  small  a 


564  LUCY  SMITH. 

sum  I  would  undertake  the  task,  you  know.  This  is 
hardly  the  time  for  anticipating  a  hearing  for  a  book  of 
this  abstract  kind,  but  if  you  can  further  my  interests, 
either  with  regard  to  it  or  to  Lotze's  "  Microcosmos,"  which 
Dr.  Noah  Porter  of  Yale  College  strongly  recommends  to 
me  for  translation,  I  know  you  will.  Dr.  Porter  is  so 
anxious  to  have  this  last  one  translated  that  he  says  if  I 
fail  in  meeting  with  a  publisher  he  will  have  it  done  on 
"  the  other  side."  You  may  tell  any  one  you  apply  to 
that  I  have  done  a  good  deal  of  this  kind  of  work.  I 
have  rather  understated  the  philosophical  charm,  the  calm 
and  elevation,  that  Mamiani's  book  appears  to  me  emi- 
nently to  possess. 

LLANBERIS,  April  28,  1880. 

.  .  .  The  inclemency  is  greater  than  it  was  in  the  win- 
ter, but  the  sun  shines  and  the  mountains  are  quite  clear 
and  very  glorious.  I  am  much  struck  with  them,  —  far 
grander  than  anything  dear  Patterdale  has  to  show.  On 
Monday  after  an  early  dinner  we  were  off  by  train  to  the 
second  station,  and  walked  back  over  high  ground ; 
Snowdon  facing  us,  head  and  shoulders  white  ;  the  silver 
sea  sparkling  behind,  and  a  most  exulting  sky  of  blue,  and 
snowy  clouds  ;  all  full  of  a  joy  such  as  only  the  lark's  song 
knows  the  secret  of.  It  is  curious  to  me  to  hear  the 
laughter  of  this  dear  one,  and  my  own  !  Ah,  not  because 
we  do  not  know  sorrow ;  rather,  out  of  its  depths  does  this 
singular  light-heartedness  spring !  .  .  .  A  morning  of  M. 
A.'s  reading  aloud  (she  reads  perfectly)  while  I  got  on 
with  my  tidy,  which  will  soon  be  with  you  now  for  fring- 
ing ;  and  Mrs. ,  a  kindly  friend,  called  and  brought 

lovely  tea  cakes.  .  .  .  There  is  something  affecting  to  me 

in  the  life  that and lead.    Nothing  varied  in  their 

life  ;  no  sense  of,  not  to  say  power  of  expressing,  differ- 
entiation. They  can  characterize  nothing,  probably  from 
not  having  had  any  conscious  experience.  If  a  stone  could 
speak,  it  would  not  tell  us  much,  neither  dislike  the  dust 


THIS  FRIENDLY  WORLD.  565 

nor  bless  the  dew.     Poor  dear thinks  she  ought  to 

have  left  ,   where  they  have  no  ties,  no  pleasures, 

where  they  remained  through  a  kind  of  agglutination  of 
habit,  just  as  a  snail  might  glue  himself  too  strongly  to  a 
wall,  and  die  in  the  recesses  of  his  shell.  Now  she  be- 
wails, but  energy  is  gone.  She  thinks  they  yet  might 
move,  if  the  others  wanted  it,  but  they  have  not  vitality 
enough  to  wish  ;  they  have  no  imagination  to  construct  a 
change  for  the  better.  Ah,  it  was  affecting  to  me.  .  .  . 

When  with ,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  stirring  a  green  pool 

and  letting  in  reaches  of  reflected  view.  But  the  conf ervae, 
one  knows,  will  close  in  again,  and  the  water  be  stagnant 
and  unlighted.  Really  this  is  no  exaggeration.  The  moral 
of  it  is,  I  think,  the  necessity  of  mental  occupation.  I  shall 
be  so  glad  to  have  my  own  child  with  me  again.  Her  af- 
fection is  surely  my  best  thing  left,  with  its  roots  so  deep 
down  in  the  past. 

To  Lady  Eastlake. 

PATTERDALE,  May  20, 1880. 

I  find  it  more  and  more  difficult  to  distinguish  between 
exceeding  unamiability  and  unqualified  unselfishness,  and 
cerebral  disease.  I  really  suppose  those  poor  afflicted 
ones  cannot  help  it,  and  illogical  though  it  may  be,  I  do 
not  find  that  this  exemption  of  some  from  responsibility 
lessens  one's  own  earnest  desire  to  keep  down  the  fault 
one  is  conscious  of,  or  one's  sense  of  power  of  choice  be- 
tween the  evil  and  the  good  —  in  other  words,  "  to  keep  a 
little  sane."  I  see  "  Dr.  Bigby's  Letters "  advertised 
["Dr.  Rigby's  Letters  from  France,"  1789],  and  I  shall 
read  them  with  the  undimmed  interest  that  attaches  to 
everything  connected  with  the  Great  Revolution.  I  often 
think  we  are  nearing  a  very  serious  social  crisis  in  our  own 
country.  The  old  sanctions  of  religious  fear  and  hope 
are  weakening,  and  the  land  question  will  involve  much 
necessary  change,  and,  in  its  course,  suffering.  The  same 


566  LUCY  SMITH. 

causes  seem  at  work  in  all  countries,  though  on  a  very 
different  scale.  Still,  the  old  order  is  evidently  "  passing," 
and  I  fear  that  in  our  large  cities  there  is  class-hatred, 
and  sense  of  unjust  inequality  of  lots.  As  I  translated 
the  two  first  chapters  of  Taine,  for  the  "  Contemporary 
Review,"  it  seemed  to  me  that  there  were  alarming  analo- 
gies between  the  state  of  England  now,  and  that  of  France 
in  1785.  Still,  I  think  there  are  strong  drags  on  the 
wheels  of  the  national  chariot,  and  that  it  will  go  down  the 
hill  with  comparative  safety  —  down  the  hill  which  pre- 
cedes another  ascent.  I  have  many  Conservative  friends, 
whose  present  language  amounts  positively  to  pessimism. 
But  I  marvel  how  any  believer  in  God,  i.  e.  Supreme  Wis- 
dom, which  must  be  Love,  fails  to  reach  the  conclusion  of 
the  grand  old  Psalmist,  "  Therefore  we  will  not  fear." 

To  Mrs.  Haughton. 

PATTERDALE,  June  4,  1880. 

This  is  not  the  first  time  that  you  have  believed  your- 
self on  the  point  of  what  we  call  death,  and  higher  beings 
perhaps  recognize  as  birth,  birth  into  a  condition  of  fuller 
knowledge  and  therefore  greater  love  and  greater  joy. 
...  I  think  nothing  can  help  us  more  than  the  feeling 
that  loved  ones  have  trodden  that  unknown  way  —  it 
makes  it  seem  familiar.  They  felt  these  strange  sensa- 
tions, unfelt  by  us  before,  and  that  gives  interest  and 
takes  away  terror.  What  has  not  the  death  of  an  unseen, 
unheard  Christ  been  to  millions  and  millions !  And  the 
death  of  one  of  his  brethren  whom  we  have  intimately 
known  and  unspeakably  loved  h,elps  us  in  proportion  to 
the  closeness  of  the  union  between  the  one  left  and  the 
one  "gone  before."  Oh,  I  think  indeed,  and  often  be- 
lieve, dear  friend,  that  the  best  is  yet  to  come  for  us  all 
(though  to  some  of  us  this  earth  has  become  so  dear,  not 
till  we  leave  it  can  we  cease  to  feel  it  best)  ;  that  our 
vague  aspirations  after  holiness,  perfection,  will  all  be  ful- 


THIS  FRIENDLY  WORLD.  567 

filled  ;  that  Love  never  dieth.  .  .  .  Some  of  us  cannot  at- 
tain to  certainty.  William  has  said,  "  God  fashions  some 
in  one  way,  some  in  another,"  and  "  God  will  not  take 
away  our  immortality  because  we  have  but  little  enjoyed 
the  hope  of  it."  "  Saved  by  hope" — hope  suffices,  and 
the  sense  that  comes  to  us  at  our  best  that  love  can  never 

die. 

To  Miss  Violetta  Smith. 

Dr.  Lietch  spoke  too  of  my  story,  "The  Professor's 
Wife,"  and  said,  "  You  put  your  heart  into  that,"  I  was 
not  aware  he  had  ever  read  it,  but  most  surely  I  did, 
and  I  should  like  you  and  Clara  to  read  it  in  "  Chainbers's 
Journal  "  for  May,  1860  ;  only  I  suppose  it  would  be  im- 
possible or  nearly  so  to  get  at.  The  tints  are  becoming 
lovely,  some  young  birches  all  gold  filigree  and  the  ferns 
all  shades  from  cream  color  to  rich  brown.  This  morning 
our  Rap  came  over,  out  of  his  own  dear  head,  and  shared 
the  walk.  It  began  with  a  visit  to  the  poor  blind  man,  who 
is  oh,  so  poor !  So  one  can  do  a  little  there,  and  that  suffices 
to  make  one  like  him.  Birnam  hunted  to  his  heart's  con- 
tent and  is  the  cheeriest  of  little  dogs,  but  also  the  most 
easily  depressed  when  not  quite  well,  and  rheumatism  I 
think  is  the  reason  why  one  paw  is  held  up  and  so  piteous 
an  expression  put  on.  Never  was  anything  prettier  than 
his  ecstacy  when  his  dear  master  arrived  on  Saturday  night. 
His  little  face  got  quite  solemn  as  he  leaned  up  beside  his 
recovered  beloved  one,  nor  gave  a  glance  to  any  other.  It 
made  me  think  of  what  is  ever  in  my  heart,  latently  if 
not  consciously  —  what  all  nature  seems  made  to  illus- 
trate —  the  great  hope  of  a  love  that  deepens  as  the  years 
slide  on  so  swiftly,  I  was  indeed  interested  in  ail  you 
say  about  "  Theophrastus  Such,"  Some  of  the  essays  are 
grand,  others  I  think  a  little  cruel.  The  petty  vanity  of 
small  authorship  is  a  subject  that  from  her  eminence  she 
ought  hardly  I  think  to  have  treated.  But  are  there  not 
numerous  revelations  to  ourselves  of  weak  points  we  hope 


568  LUCY  SMITH. 

(vainly  !)  our  friends  may  not  have  discovered  ?  I  won- 
der how  any  one  can  bear  thus  to  criticise  this  great  mor- 
alist without  an  acknowledgment  of  this  kind. 

PATTERDALE,  June  11,  1880. 

...  I  was  off  to  Mrs.  H.,  and  found  her  wonderfully 
better.  On  my  way  I  met  a  woman  who  coughed  osten- 
tatiously, as  it  were,  and  wore  a  fur  about  her  neck.  She 
meant  me  to  stop,  and  I  did,  and  all  her  symptoms  were 
unfolded,  and  commented  upon  by  your  Zia  with  such 
sagacity  that  she  said,  "  Why,  I  do  believe  you  '11  be  as 

good  as  Dr. !  "  and  invited  me  to  call.     I  do  believe 

I  shall  be  a  formidable  rival  practitioner,  —  advice  gratis 
and  medicine  given.  Mrs.  H.,  was  "cracking"  with 

little "  the    kindest    creatur."      I   was    much 

affected  with  this  proof  of  the  divinity  of  kindness,  ser- 
viceableness.  Here  is  this  little  half-witted  woman  a 
blessing.  And  they  tell  me  that  she  enters  into  such  curi- 
ously close  relations  with  animals  ;  has  names  for  all  the 
sheep  under  her  care,  and  they  know  her.  If  you  see  a 
quite  cheap  red  or  blue  collar,  such  as  might  decorate  a 
cat,  you  might  send  it  to  me.  I  would  go  as  far  as  a  shil- 
ling. She  is  so  obliged  when  her  cats  are  asked  for.  I 
may  tell  you  that  I  have  made  a  friend  of  the  smith  for 
life  by  telling  him  he  had  the  prettiest  little  girl  in  the 
district, —  and  so  she  is.  And  now  I  must  tell  you  of  my 
perfect  walk  on  an  ineffable  afternoon.  The  hills  drew 
me,  and  I  went  up  through  those  trees  you  wot  of ;  first 
birches  and  gnarled  hollies,  and  at  my  feet  exquisite 
flowers  —  I  never  saw  the  flowers  so  profuse  here  as  they 
are  this  year.  And  oh,  the  blues  of  Fairfield,  the  gran- 
deur of  Sunday  Crag,  the  frolic  lights  and  shades  on 
Hartsop  Dodd  and  the  other  mountains  ;  and  then  a  rain- 
bow like  an  order  across  the  sturdy  green  breast  of  the 
Dodd  !  The  beauty  was  great  indeed,  and  the  exquisite 
solitude.  A  pair  of  ravens  croaked  and  flew  about  as 


THIS  FRIENDLY  WORLD.  569 

though  they  had  a  nest  not  far  off.  I  went  far  enough  to 
see  that  with  the  day  before  me  I  might  make  out  the 
lower  crest  of  Fairfield.  No  words  can  say  how  such  a 
ramble  lifts  me  into  his  dear  companionship  who  loved 
the  mountains,  and  to  whom  Nature  revealed  herself  as 
she  never  can  to  me,  because  he  was  more,  and  it  is  in 
proportion  of  course  to  what  we  are  that  we  have.  And 
when  once  this  is  intellectually  apprehended,  the  language 
of  discontent  will  be  less  seldom  heard,  because  it  will  be 
known  what  it  implies.  And  by  and  by  the  higher  wis- 
dom will  come  in,  and  the  joy  in  the  higher  life  of  others. 

To  Mrs.  A.  Constable. 

PATTERDALE,  July  19,  1880. 

...  I  have  nothing  the  matter  with  me  —  that  I  know 
of,  as  precious  mother  added  invariably.  You  will  blend 
many  a  thought  of  her,  my  darling,  with  your  enjoyment 
of  the  "  Messiah."  What  she  used  to  feel  at  the  very  thought 
of  its  sublimity !  I  go  over  it  through  you.  Was  there 
ever  a  lovelier  melody  than  that  of  "  Comfort  ye "  ? 
When  I  am  going  to  hear  "  That  her  warfare  is  accom- 
plished "  I  feel  as  if  I  could  not  bear  its  unutterable  ten- 
derness. One  can't  help  wishing  Handel  could  hear  how 
they  render  him  now.  He  may,  you  know  !  If  I  live  an- 
other three  years  I  will  try  to  hear  this  marvel  once  more. 
If  gifted  people  hear,  as  they  must,  more  in  this  music 
than  I,  how  do  they  survive  it !  I  Ve  been  reading  "  The 
Ethics  of  Sophocles  "  with  much  interest,  my  Archie,  in 
bed  in  the  front  room  ;  with  the  brook  purling  its  sweet 
accompaniment  to  the  great  questions  put  by  those  old 
Greeks  as  they  are  put  now  ;  the  putting  of  them  consti- 
tuting us  men ;  the  answer,  if  it  come,  proving  us  im- 
mortals. 


570  LUCY  SMITH. 

To  Mrs.  Ruck. 

PATTERDALE,  July  26,  1880. 

I  have  been  silent  longer  than  usual,  for  I  felt  that 
although  did  I  claim  them  your  kind  thoughts  would  be 
given  to  me,  it  was  really  better  not  to  write  just  now, 
when  every  day  is  full  to  overflowing.  But  you  know 
that  I  think  of  you  with  delight,  with  all  your  darlings, 
and  their  darlings  who  are  also  yours,  gathered  about  you. 
Not  a//,  yet  perhaps  the  sweet  one  who  is  absent  is  nearer 
than  any,  and  in  your  heart  I  know  mingles  with  every 
joy.  It  must  be  touching  to  see  her  little  boy  playing 
with  her  loved  brother's  little  girl.  What  an  ecstasy  the 
sands  and  the  great  sea,  when  in  weather  like  this  "  it 
seems  the  gentlest  of  created  things,"  do  bestow  on  chil- 
dren. No  such  playfellows  as  those  little  waves !  I  see 
the  chicks  and  their  elders,  all  so  happy,  and  surrounded 
with  an  outer  sphere  of  kindliness  and  variety.  All  you 
tell  me  is  delightful,  and  I  trust  this  gathering  may  be  a 
long  one  —  that  Dr.  Darwin  may  be  able  to  remain  with 
you  a  while  —  and  that  it  may  be  often  repeated.  Your 
dear  healthy  nature  is  so  alive  to  all  the  good  and  pleas- 
urable, and  throws  off  the  other  elements  of  life. 

I  am  a  poor  creature  indeed,  too  easily  and  too  deeply 
ruffled.  Last  evening  I  beheld  one  of  the  company  of 
quite  uncultivated  but  as  it  is  called  well-to-do  people  now 
staying  at  the  next  door,  busily  engaged  in  uprooting  a 
few  common  but  most  graceful  ferns  that  bent  over  the 
other  side  of  the  brook,  and  often  delighted  me  as  they 
dipped  into  the  water  when  it  was  quietly  full  and  were 
swayed  by  it  in  the  flood.  Their  beauty  was  one  of  posi- 
tion, was  that  of  the  trees  and  the  stream  as  well  as  the 
fern.  That  of  course  was  hidden  from  this  coarse  nature, 
who  only  saw  in  any  given  thing  a  something  to  have  and 
to  carry  away.  But  he  might  have  known  that  he  had  no 
right  to  jump  over  a  fence  into  inclosed  grounds.  Well, 


THIS  FRIENDLY  WORLD.  571 

my  darling,  this  made  me  so  indignant  that  there  was  not 
a  pulse  or  nerve  that  did  not  quiver.  And  I  woke  from 
iny  first  sleep  with  numb  arms  and  such  sensations  in  the 
head  as  were  new  to  me  and  amounted  to  a  changed  iden- 
tity —  a  terrible  sense  of  dissolution  and  nothingness,  and 
fear  that  I  could  neither  remember  nor  speak.  I  recalled 
one  bit  of  rhyme  after  another  —  I  tried  to  stay  myself 
upon  the  "  Power  not  ourselves  "  —  and  by  and  by  could 
return  to  bed  and  fall  asleep.  You  know  that  not  to 
wake  would  seem  to  me  very  sweet.  This  morning  my 
head  racks.  I  am  saddened  to  feel  how  at  the  mercy  of 
circumstances  I  am.  This  baring  of  the  whole  country  — 
this  destruction  of  all  flowers  and  ferns  —  was  very  forci- 
bly brought  forward  in  the  "  Standard  "  some  three  weeks 
or  a  month  ago,  and  the  statistics  of  spoliation  given.  It 
is  a  fact  that  here  little  but  nettles  and  plantain  is  left. 
Wherever  a  fern  spread  so  as  to  attract  the  eye  it  has 
been  taken.  With  me  the  disgust  at  the  offensive  and 
dishonest  covetousness  that  cannot  see  without  appropriat- 
ing is  perhaps  the  thing  that  most  rouses  my  anger,  and 
anger  would  soon  kill  —  it  rends  me.  It  is  very  sad,  for 
I  can  never  hope  for  a  Swiss  tour  with  any  dear  friend  ! 
To  see  the  gentians  and  anemones  carried  away  would  be 
more  than  I  could  bear.  It  will  take  a  longer  time  to 
strip  Switzerland  than  this  Lake  district,  but  't  is  but  an 
affair  of  time.  Before  the  higher  culture  that  can  wor- 
ship without  wanting  to  have  becomes  general,  centuries  I 
suppose  must  pass.  My  life  will  close  in  the  worst  mo- 
ment of  the  transition  from  indifference  to  flowers  and 
ferns,  to  the  eventual  reverence  for  them  which  will  leave 
them  amid  their  own  beautiful  surroundings  to  gladden 
the  eyes  of  others.  But  by  that  time  they  will  only  be  to 
be  found  in  botanical  gardens.  Well,  my  dear  one,  you 
will  wonder  why  I  cannot  change  the  subject  —  I  will. 


572  LUCY  SMITH. 

To  the  Rev.  Allan  Menzies. 

PATTERDALE,  July  27,  1880. 

I  have  had  a  delightful  morning  over  Principal  Caird's 
book,  more  especially  the  chapter  on  "  The  Moral  Life," 
and  as  I  lay  it  down  I  feel  an  impulse  to  write  a  few  words 
to  you.  This  is  rather  a  shyer  thing  than  it  used  to  be  in 
your  solitary  days,  not  only  because  the  completer  life  so 
far  from  wanting  may  consider  letters  rather  troublesome 
superfluities,  but  because  spontaneity  is  a  little  checked 
by  the  knowledge  that  four  eyes  read  the  pages.  For  I 
take  it  for  granted  that  with  you,  as  it  was  with  us,  every- 
thing is  shared.  I  dare  say  I  was  often  a  hampering 
thought  to  some  that  wrote  to  my  husband.  But  indeed 
it  is  one  personality,  after  all,  and  I  am  not  going  even  to 
remember  that  it  is  more  complex,  possibly  more  critical, 
or  anything  except  that  I  want  to  tell  you  the  intense  in- 
terest the  book  excites  in  me.  Is  it  its  Hegelianism  which 
gives  it  a  certain  novel  charm  ?  .  .  .  My  husband  had 
never  read,  that  is  never  been  a  student  of  Hegel.  How- 
ever, names  are  nothing.  At  a  certain  elevation  thought 
is  necessarily  one.  And  though  its  gains  are  to  my  think- 
ing more  precious  and  even  sacred  when  I  think  of  them 
as  the  result  rather  of  God  in  man,  the  gift  implied  in 
man's  nature,  than  as  special  utterances  of  God  to  man, 
in  certain  places  and  at  certain  times ;  yet  one  does  not 
wonder  that  the  wondrously  comprehensive  sayings  in  our 
Bible  stood  and  still  stand  for  specially  divine  revelations. 
How  they  dilate  before  the  mind,  when  one  goes  back  to 
them  from  reading  this  chapter  and  sees  they  hold  it  all ! 

I  can  now  better  understand  Mr.  P S 's  feeling 

of  indifference  to  the  difference  between  the  standards  of 
the  church  and  his.  Still,  those  standards  do  not  to  the 
common  mind  mean  this  grand  Unity  that  reconciles 
all  things,  and,  could  we  but  remain  on  the  Mount  of 
Vision  would  almost  conquer  sorrow  and  self.  They  rep- 


THIS  FRIENDLY  WORLD.  573 

resent  a  quite  other  tendency,  which  has  recently  found 
hideous  manifestation  in  the  Free  Church  Assembly  ;  and 
I  therefore  hope  they  will  be  modified,  not  only  through 
enlightened  men  contravening  them,  but  brave  men  de- 
manding that  what  is  capable  of  such  widely  different  in- 
terpretation should  undergo  change,  compression,  excision. 
I  don't  feel  satisfied  with  a  kind  of  esoteric  conviction 
that  nobody  nowadays  can  mean  this  by  that.  Well,  it 
will  all  be  right,  and  that  volume  of  sermons  ["  Scotch 
Sermons  "]  will  help  on  the  better  day,  u  the  Christ  that 
is  to  be."  Twenty  years  ago,  here  in  this  sweet  Patter- 
dale,  my  Holy  Land  of  joy  and  grief,  my  husband  read 
me  out  that  noble  strain  of  hope,  and  the  line  I  quote  hurt 
my  then  narrowness  of  mind.  He  gently  suggested  its 
meaning,  but  left  out  the  verse  when  he  read  it  next,  with 
that  exquisite  "  compassion  for  the  weak,  and  for  those 
out  of  the  way,"  that  "gentle  leading,"  which  belongs  to 
all  true  guides  that  get  the  flock  on  to  greener  pastures 
and  waters  of  more  comfort.  .  .  .  There  —  that  is  enough 
about  books.  I  hear  a  splashing  in  the  brook  which  re- 
minds me  of  a  really  interesting  friendship  between  the 
two  cows  on  whom  we  depend  for  our  one  luxury.  One 
of  these  dear  milky  mothers  has  had  an  illness,  and  has 
looked  pathetically  ludicrous  walking  about  with  a  blanket 
bound  round  her  for  fear  of  catching  cold.  And  how  dis- 
dainfully she  has  mumbled  an  odd  blade  of  grass  here  and 
there,  with  all  the  caprice  of  a  fine  lady  !  This  morning 
she  betook  herself  to  a  saunter  up  the  river,  and  the  other 
ran  wildly  to  the  gate  of  the  field  to  announce  the  risk  her 
friend  was  running,  and  then  stood  watching  her  return, 
but  when  that  seemed  to  be  delayed  too  long  went  into 
the  river  herself  to  fetch  her  back.  With  these  cows 
there  is  reciprocity  no  doubt,  but  the  love  of  one  is  more 
passive.  I  was  stroking  her  silky  white  coat  the  other 
day,  when  up  ran  the  brown  lady  and  pushed  me  away, 
and  then  fell  to  licking  the  recipient  of  my  caresses,  as 


574  LUCY  SMITH. 

though  they  had  left  some  discredit  that  needed  removal. 
I  have  not  got  the  dear  Birnam.  Archie  and  Mary 
brought  him  with  them  on  the  22d  of  May,  meaning  to 
leave  him  here,  but  the  game-keeper,  fussy  about  his  set- 
ting pheasants,  sent  a  savage  message,  and  so  Archie  had 
to  come  over  at  once  and  take  him  back.  They  went  off 
on  the  5th,  and  I  had  a  week  of  intenser  life,  alone  on  the 
hills  or  over  my  books,  than  often  visits  me  now.  Now  I 
am  what  old-fashioned  Scotch  people  call  "  in  my  usuals," 
and  dear  Violetta  has  come  to  me  for  I  hope  several 
weeks.  She  has  just  returned  from  the  Ober-Ammergau, 
and  felt  an  intense  interest  in  the  Passion-play.  Archie 
and  Mary  have  been  enjoying  the  Handel  Festival,  and 
many  other  things,  but  that  I  think  will  be  the  most  abid- 
ing impression.  You  will  easily  imagine  how  entirely 
liked  they  are  by  the  country  people  here.  It  is  amusing 
to  hear  the  various  epithets  used,  but  for  Mary  there  is 
an  unvarying  one,  whatever  may  be  added :  "  She  is  so 
feeling." 

.     To  Mrs.  A.  Constable. 

PENBITH,  July  30,  1880. 

I  must  write  a  few  lines  to  tell  my  dear  ones  of  an  inter- 
esting visit  yesterday  from  that  sweet  creature  Mrs.  R • 

R ,  who  has  c6me  to  this  neighbourhood  for  two  nights. 

She  brought  her  lovely  little  girl,  one  of  the  handsomest, 
most  high-bred,  well-behaved  gentlewomen  of  her  age. 
She  is  the  counterpart  of  her  splendid  looking  father,  who 
when  he  stalked  in  made  the  room  shrink  to  a  nutshell, 
and,  having  nothing  to  say,  said  nothing,  with  the  aplomb 
of  some  great  mastiff  who  turns  a  deaf  ear  to  idle  human 
talk.  Really  the  sweet  woman's  bliss  is  heart-warming, 
and  when  the  child  rubbed  her  fair  head  on  her  knee  I 
felt  and  even  saw  the  restrained  impulse  to  "  eat  her  up," 
—  the  agony  of  mother-love  —  and  said,  "  Is  n't  it  wonder, 
ful  how  you  live  through  such  bliss  ?  "  And  she  said  it 


THIS  FRIENDLY  WORLD.  575 

was,  and  if  there  were  not  sometimes  little  colds  and 
alarms  she  did  not  think  she  could  bear  her  happiness. 
They  are  off  to-day,  and  she  drives  here  to  exhibit  the 
baby.  Strange,  how  I  feel  the  contagion  of  her  joy.  I 
was  very  poorly  before  she  came,  but  my  headache  went 
off.  One  is  so  glad  of  gladness,  and  she  is  one  of  the 
highly  organized  and  expressive. 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Loomis. 

PATTEBDALE,  Aug.  7, 1880. 

.  .  .  You  have  given  an  attractive  name  to  the  charm- 
ing house,  of  which  I  am  glad  to  have  a  photograph.  In 
the  "  Contemporary  "  of  this  month  there  is  a  very  lamen- 
table picture  of  our  "  Dishorned  "  condition.  I  can  well  un- 
derstand the  different  amount  of  motive  and  interest  felt 
by  those  who  aspire  to  a  home  that  shall  as  it  were  be  or- 
ganically related  to  their  taste  and  temperament,  and  that 
open  to  those  whose  aspirations  never  go  beyond  cutting 
themselves  down  and  fitting  themselves  into  a  house  that 
is  like  a  thousand  others,  and  probably  represents  no  one's 
preference,  only  the  builder's  convenience.  It  made  me 
sad  that  my  husband  had  not  a  home,  for  he  would  have 
loved  it.  But  I  think  he  was  content  with  his  little  desk, 
and  the  companion  to  whom  his  presence  made  any  spot  a 
heart's  home  indeed.  And  naturally  I  never  wish  for  any 
outward  thing  now,  which  is  fortunate,  for  such  wishes 
could  not  be  indulged.  "  Shelter  Eaves  "  led  me  to  this 
train  of  thought,  and  indeed  the  article  in  question  has  a 
very  solemn  amount  of  truth  in  it,  though  the  writer  is,  I 
hope,  rather  a  one-idea  man,  and  even  a  rented  abode  may 
become  endeared  and  ennobled  by  true  and  loving  lives 
being  led  within  its  walls.  However,  the  land  question 
is  one  widely  put  nowadays,  and  spite  of  the  high-handed 
way  in  which  the  Lords  have  just  rejected  an  Irish  devel- 
opment of  it,  it  is  a  question  that  will  have  to  be  answered, 
not  silenced.  But  I  trust  social  changes  may  be  carried 


576  LUCY  SMITH. 

011  more  gradually,  more  bloodlessly,  here  than  is  the  case 
in  France,  or  perhaps  may  be  the  case  in  Germany. 
Here  there  is  a  comparative  fusion  of  classes,  and  a  very 
growing  sense  of  the  solidarity  of  the  human  race. 

I  have  got  just  now  a  book  I  find  helpful,  Principal 
Caird's  "  Philosophy  of  Religion."  They  say  it  is  fraught 
with  Hegelianism.  But  the  one  important  thing  is  to  feel 
raised  toward  a  high  standard,  liberated  for  a  while  from 
the  limitations  of  self.  How  some  writers  affect  one  thus 
—  others  leave  one  cold  or  even  carping.  In  these  mat- 
ters we  may  I  think  be  pretty  safely  guided  by  personal 
results,  and  without  disparaging  teachers  whose  voice 
does  not  draw  us,  who  do  not  know  our  natures  by  name, 
we  may  turn  to  others.  I  often  wonder  how  it  is  we  feel 
the  personality  so  plainly  through  the  printed  page.  I  do 
not  know  your  Boston  preacher,  Phillips  Brooks.  The 
Established  Church  of  Scotland  has  just  produced  a  vol- 
ume of  very  thrilling  sermons,  published  by  Macmillan. 
I  should  like  you  to  see  them.  They  show  a  very  remark- 
able freedom  of  thought,  and  the  Presbyteries  are  satisfied ! 
What  changes  we  see  !  I  was  brought  up  by  the  sweet- 
est and  tenderest  of  mothers,  who  would  not  herself  have 
hurt  a  fly,  or  the  feeling  of  the  poorest  and  most  ignorant, 
to  shudder  at  Pope's  line,  — 

"  He  can't  be  wrong  whose  action  's  in  the  right." 

Her  immense  awe  and  humility  made  this  seem  arro- 
gant, impious.  And  yet  is  it  not  tantamount  to  "  The 
tree  is  known  by  its  fruits  ?  "  I  think  we  now  shall  all 
agree  in  supremely  desiring  "the  mind  that  was  in 
Christ,"  and,  so  that  "  sweet  reasonableness  "  obtain  in 
any  character,  love  it,  and  thank  God  for  it,  whatever  the 
opinions.  Words  distort,  and  it  is  so  difficult  to  get  at 
definitions.  ...  Is  not  all  real  genius  akin  ?  I  think  the 
highest  thought  must  speak  the  same  moral  truths,  just  as 
musicians  must  deal  with  the  same  notes,  and  the  primary 


THIS  FRIENDLY  WORLD.  577 

colors  are  few.  I  was  so  pleased  with  your  appreciation 
of  Mrs.  Pfeiffer's  poem  that  I  at  once  read  it  over  again, 
and  admired  it  more  than  before.  She  is  a  most  lovely 
woman,  and  her  husband  adores  her.  I  copied  out  that 
part  of  your  letter  for  him,  knowing  the  pleasure  it  would 
give.  And  I  don't  think  1  am  doing  any  harm  in  sending 
you  one  of  his.  His  warm  heart,  overflowing  with  happi- 
ness, is  sorry  for  me,  and  therefore  as  you  see  very  kindly. 
It  may  interest  you  to  have  this  peep  into  the  home  life  of 
the  poet  you  admire.  You,  who  love  music,  would  have 
liked  to  hear  her  accompany  her  husband's  singing.  She 
plays  charmingly,  and  her  flower-painting  is  the  most 
beautiful  I  have  seen.  This  reminds  me  of  Mrs.  Loomis's 
painting  on  china.  She  too  has  the  artistic  temperament, 
with  its  high  enjoyments.  And  she  must  never  give  up 
playing,  even  to  the  daughters.  I  doubt  that  even  their 
music  will  please  you  like  hers  ! 

Some  five  or  six  weeks  ago  I  had  a  half -hour's  call  from 
friends  of  President  Porter's,  on  their  way  from  Patter- 
dale  to  Keswick.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  hear  them  speak 
of  him.  I  asked  Miss  Hillhouse  if  she  knew  you,  but  she 
did  not.  There  is  something  a  little  sad  in  these  glimpses 
of  those  we  shall  never  see  again.  Will  you  not  some 
of  these  days  re-cross  the  Atlantic  ?  My  feeling  for  you 
roots  in  my  blessed  past,  and  so  lives.  It  is  but  a  shad- 
owy regard  I  can  give  to  those  who  never  knew  my  hus- 
band. Fortunately  for  me  all  my  oldest  and  truest  friends 
had  that  in  their  nature  which  enabled  them  to  reverence 
his.  Just  now  I  have  a  dear  old  friend  of  girlhood  with 
me.  One  of  her  nobly  handsome  sons  married,  three 
years  ago,  Miss  Thackeray.  .  .  .  She  was  here  the  other  day 
with  her  lovely  little  girl,  telling  of  the  perfection  of  her 
baby  boy,  and  radiant  with  love  and  joy.  I  am  not  much 
alone.  Nieces,  old  friends,  come  into  retreat  here,  and  are 
good  in  saying  that  the  quiet  refreshes  them.  When  I 
am  at  my  best  I  enjoy  solitude,  but  it  is  best  as  an  alter- 


578  LUCY  SMITH. 

native.     Do  i* jt  be  silent  very  long  —  but  never  write  me 
a  line  that  tires  you. 

To  Mrs.  Haughton. 

[Patterdale,  Oct.  30,  1880.]  This  whole  poem  of 
Whittier's  is  beautiful.  Oh,  how  often  have  I  repeated 
it  to  my  husband  at  night  when  he  could  not  sleep !  The 
last  verse  of  it  he  liked,  and  once  repeated  the  two  clos- 
ing lines :  — 

"  And  Thou,  O  Lord,  by  whom  are  seen 

Thy  creatures  as  they  be, 
Forgive  me  if  too  close  I  lean 
My  human  heart  on  thee." 

To  Mrs.  Cotton. 

EDINBURGH,  1880. 

On  this  sweet,  sunny  day  my  thoughts  turn  to  you, 
you  bright  one,  and  I  will  at  least  begin  a  letter.  I  have 
been  absorbed  for  several  days  in  the  contemplation  of 
wonderful  personalities,  Isabella  Bird  having  kindly  lent 
all  her  long  letters  to  her  sister  from  the  Malay  Peninsula 
—  the  most  interesting  I  think  that  she  has  yet  written. 
I  am  not  sure  whether  you  have  read  her  "  Rocky  Moun- 
tains." They  are  full  of  marvels.  An  Edinburgh  clergy- 
man who  travelled  rapidly  over  the  same  ground  and  had 
not  duly  taken  in  the  fact  of  "  eyes  and  no  eyes,"  or  at 
least  of  different  ranges  of  mental  vision,  rashly  protested 
that  he  did  not  believe  a  word  in  Miss  Bird's  book.  This 
came  to  her  ears,  and  when  they  met  at  a  dinner  party  she 
in  her  clear,  gentlest  tones  (she  is  singularly  gentle  and 
courteous)  was  heard  by  her  dismayed  hostess,  who  knew 
and  had  felt  the  awkwardness  of  the  position,  to  say,  "  I 
hear,  Mr.  -  — -,  that  you  consider  my  book  inaccurate  ; 
would  you  give  me  some  instances  ?  Perhaps  I  might 
explain  them."  The  embarrassment  was  great,  and  he 
could  adduce  none  in  particular,  but,  however,  it  ended  in 


THIS  FRIENDLY  WORLD.  579 

the  two  talking  all  the  evening,  and  in  his  going  off  en- 
tirely persuaded  of  her  truthfulness.  She  is  one  of  those 
singular,  magnetic  people  to  whom  adventures  gravitate. 
She  has  the  most  remarkable  experiences,  being  herself  re- 
markable. There  are  few  things  that  would  interest  me 
more  than  your  reading  one  especially  of  these  letters  from 
a  place  called ,  familiar  I  dare  say  to  you,  dar- 
ling geographer,  botanist,  and  generally  well-informed 
woman,  —  but  to  me,  like  the  rest  of  the  places,  utterly 
unknown  before.  When  she  got  there,  the  Resident  was 
absent,  and  for  three  days  she  had  no  other  and  wanted 
no  other  companionship  than  that  of  —  apes  1  On  the 
February  of  last  year  she  writes  thence,  "  One  might  just 
as  well  live  in  a  menagerie.  I  wondered  on  arriving  to 
find  three  plates  set  for  dinner,  knowing  that  there  was 
no  one  here,  and  as  soon  as  I  sat  down  the  magnificent 
Sikh  butler  brought  in  one  large  ape,  and  the  Malay  ser- 
vant brought  in  another  small  one,  and  a  Spahi  brought 
in  a  great  retriever  and  tied  it  to  my  chair,  and  the  apes 
had  their  chutney  and  pineapple  and  eggs  and  bananas 
handed  to  them  on  Minton's  china,  and  the  small  ape  sat 
on  the  table  and  constantly  helped  himself  from  my  plate." 
These  apes  must  have  been  bewitching !  The  next  morn- 
ing she  "  breakfasted  with  them  "  —  but  these  things  will 
one  day  be  written  in  a  book.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  she 
is  delightful  enough  to  be  quite  worthy  of  this  great  social 
privilege,  as  I  consider  it.  Mima  N.,  to  whom  I  sent  the 
bare  facts,  pronounces  the  episode  "  heavenly  "  —  man's 
inadequate  sense  of  his  loving  duty  to  animals  being  her 
great  stumbling-block  and  burden.  .  .  .  The  other  won- 
derful being  who  has  been  possessing  me  is  one  never 
seen,  "  Sister  Dora."  Have  you  read  that  book  ?  It  is 
engrossing,  as  the  presentation  of  a  rare  personality  al- 
ways is,  and  I  think  in  proportion  to  one's  own  conscious 
and  constitutional  lack  of  the  gifts  one  worships.  But 
there  must  be  people  of  all  kinds,  and  there  is  a  sweetness 


580  LUCY  SMITH. 

in  a  sense  of  inferiority  -that  intensifies  reverence.  In 
that  way  one  may  "  glory  in  one's  infirmities."  The 
memoir  of  "  So3ur  Rosalie  "  inspires  the  same  feelings, 
and  perhaps  even  more  love.  I  see  that  the  "  Life  of  Mary 
Aikenhead,"  another  sister  of  that  blessed  order  of  St. 
Vincent  de  Paul,  is  another  book  of  the  life-giving  sort. 
I  shall  miss  many  things  when  I  leave  Edinburgh,  which 
I  do  this  day  week.  Dear  Archie  is  so  good  in  providing 
me  with  books,  so  good  in  all  ways,  and  Mary  is  so  inva- 
riably pleasant  to  me,  and  we  are  such  "  familiar  friends." 

To  Mrs.  Ruck. 

EDINBURGH,  Dec.  28, 1880. 

I  find  it  impossible  to  write  without  uttering  the  thoughts 
that  must  occupy  all  minds ;  without  beginning  with  the 
shock  and  sorrow  that  all  share  —  this  sudden  departure 
of  that  great  soul  [George  Eliot].  From  Thursday  even- 
ing, when  Archie  brought  in  a  little  paper  with  the  bare 
fact,  till  now,  it  is  the  one  recurring  sense  of  strangeness 
and  sadness.  I  find  myself  inwardly  repeating  again 
and  again  "  And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! " 
.  .  .  This  death  is  a  rising  again  in  my  heart  of  Mrs. 
Lewes,  and  an  immense  regret  —  since  she  was  so  happy 
—  that  she  had  to  go  away. 

To  Miss  Violetta  Smith. 

[1880.]  I  wish  I  could  send  you  a  concise  definition 
of  the  difference  between  the  Deism  of  the  last  century 
and  the  Theism  of  the  present.  The  words  are  the  same 
of  course,  but  the  Deist  was  less  religious,  had  less  sense 
of  union  with  God  than  the  Theist  has.  He  would  have 
admitted  that  "  God  created  the  heaven  and  the  earth," 
but  the  Theist  at  his  best  realizes  with  loving  trust  that 
"  He  is  not  far  from  any  one  of  us  ;  "  that  "  in  Him  we  live 
and  move  and  have  our  being."  To  the  Deist  God  seemed 
I  think  more  of  an  abstraction  ;  to  the  Theist  he  is  u  all 


THIS  FRIENDLY  WORLD.  581 

in  all."  Your  uncle  was  a  most  devout  Theist,  and  so  are 
all  the  writers  of  the  "  Scotch  Sermons,"  though  perhaps 
they  would  take  the  name  of  Christians  in  preference. 
And  why  not  call  themselves  by  the  name  of  the  Ideal  they 
worship,  the  Master  whose  cause,  the  cause  of  good,  they 
live  to  promote  ? 

[1880.]  I  am  glad  my  Vi  is  full  of  interest  in  the 
"Scotch  Sermons."  Principal  Caird's  are  full  of  elevat- 
ing power,  and  I  long  to  re-read  them.  No  doubt  he  is 
right  in  saying  that  in  proportion  as  we  gain  in  virtue, 
struggle  ceases.  We  should  think  it  a  poor  compliment 
to  an  honourable  man  to  suppose  he  told  the  truth  by  dint 
of  effort.  It  is  the  law  of  his  nature,  and  he  is  in  no 
danger  of  thinking  it  a  merit.  The  customary  religious 
teaching  has  rather  a  tendency  to  make  the  struggle  ap- 
pear a  fine  thing  in  itself.  Certainly  it  is  better  than  un- 
conscious evil  action  ;  it  shows  that  the  mind  has  waked 
to  the  perception  of  two  courses,  and  that  the  reason  ap- 
proves the  better.  I  think  Mr.  Vaughan's  definition,  our 
"  natural  will  "  and  "  God's  will,"  would  be  more  practi- 
cally effective  if  it  were  called  the  "  tendency  to  be  selfish  " 
which  lies  at  the  root  of  our  consciousness  (necessarily), 
and  the  higher  nature  that  comes  in  and  aims  at  consider- 
ing, till  at  length  it  instinctively  considers,  others  equally 
and  sometimes  first.  Without  entering  into  the  question 
of  Christ's  divinity  —  an  unthinkable  doctrine  as  Ortho- 
doxy teaches  it,  —  no  other  can  ever  in  this  scientific  age 
so  impress  the  religious  imagination,  nor  have  we  any 
record  of  such  union  with  God  as  he  was  conscious  of. 
Generally,  as  we  have  seen  it  in  later  ages,  this  sense  has 
been  united  with  some  abnormal  qualities,  severing  the 
man  from  the  sympathies  of  other  men.  We  stand  so  far 
from  the  exquisite  Ideal  that  united  the  highest  God-con- 
sciousness with  the  "  sweetest  reasonableness  "  that  details 
are  veiled  ;  butybr  us  that  example  and  teaching  remain 
a  permanent  power  and  attraction ;  for  us  there  is  no 
other  such  name. 


582  LUCY  SMITH. 


ECHOES. 

"  Deep  streams  run  still, —  and  why  ?  Not  because  there  are  no  obstruc- 
tions, but  because  they  altogether  overflow  those  stones  or  rocks  round 
which  the  shallow  stream  has  to  make  its  noisy  way  ;  'tis  the  full  life 
that  saves  us  from  the  little  noisy  troubles  of  life."  —  W.  S. 

Deep  the  stream  and  silent  — 

Scarce  I  hear  its  flow  — 
What  a  noise  its  current 

Made  few  days  ago  ! 

Round  the  stones  it  fretted 

On  its  shallow  way  — 
Babbling  in  vexation 

Over  each  delay. 

Came  the  heavy  rainfall, 

Swelled  the  river's  might  — 

Now  its  stony  troubles 
Are  unheeded  quite. 

So,  when  our  complaining 

Tells  of  constant  strife 
With  some  moveless  hindrance 

In  our  path  of  life  ; 

What  we  need  is  only 

Fulness  of  our  own  — 
If  the  current  deepen, 

Never  mind  the  stone  ! 

Let  the  fuller  nature 

Flow  its  mass  above, 
Cover  it  with  pity, 

Cover  it  with  love. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

THE  RELIGION   OF  TO-DAY. 

THE  wife  has  told  us  that  when  in  early  days  she  once 
lamented  the  coldness  of  that  view  of  religion  which  in 
her  friend's  mind  had  superseded  the  supernatural  faith, 
he  answered  her,  with  a  look  "  half  pleading,  half  pa- 
thetic," "Wait,  wait  —  till  mothers  have  taught  it  to 
their  children ! "  That  view  of  his,  that  conception  of 
the  universe  which  in  our  generation  has  so  largely 
ripened,  she  came  to  fully  accept;  it  assimilated  with 
her  deepest  life  ;  it  took  on  new  emphases  and  nobler  in- 
terpretations from  a  woman's  character  under  a  woman's 
typical  experiences.  And  no  one  could  better  illustrate 
than  she  does  that  in  the  best  development  there  is  no 
hostility  between  the  old  faith  and  the  new.  The  best  of 
the  old  is  carried  forward  and  assimilated  with  the  new. 
The  transition  may  not  always  be  free  from  shock  and 
temporary  dislocation,  but  in  the  ultimate  result  the  pres- 
ent is  the  inheritor  of  the  past.  It  will  be  noticed  with 
what  fondness  and  fitness  the  wife  often  appropriates  the 
old  familiar  language  of  the  Bible  to  the  modern  forms  of 
thought.  She  enjoyed  this  advantage  over  her  husband, 
that  he  had  in  early,  unaided  youth  been  thrown  into  in- 
tellectual antagonism  with  the  whole  system  of  Chris- 
tianity as  it  was  then  taught,  whereas  she  was  guided  by  a 
hand  so  gentle  that  she  exchanged  the  old  for  the  new 
thought  at  the  cost  of  hardly  more  than  an  occasional 
passing  shiver.  It  was  not  that  change  which  gave  poign- 
ancy to  the  questionings  of  her  later  years,  —  it  was  the 
confrontal  with  those  tremendous  realities  of  death  and 


584  LUCY  SMITH. 

bereavement,  whose  advent  presses  home  upon  the  soul 
the  problem  of  its  destiny.  Her  character  and  her  be- 
liefs, as  we  see  them  at  the  last,  suggest  a  glance  at  the 
present  tendencies  of  religion  among  the  thoughtful  peo- 
ple of  the  English-speaking  race.  On  the  surface  there 
are  stubborn  contradictions.  We  must  look  below  the 
surface ;  we  must  seek  the  significance  of  each  movement, 
not  in  the  loudest  voices,  not  in  the  votes  of  majorities, 
but  in  its  deep  under-current. 

Three  words  sum  up  the  highest  results  of  modern 
thought.  The  word  spoken  by  the  church  is  Christ.  The 
word  of  science  is  Evolution.  The  word  of  humanity  is 
the  Soul. 

All  the  vitality  in  Christian  theology  has  concentrated 
itself  in  the  idea  of  Christ.  Christ,  from  an  actor  in  a 
mediatorial  drama,  has  come  to  be  regarded  as  a  direct 
manifestation  of  the  Divine  Nature  in  the  form  of  perfect 
humanity.  Christ,  as  Incarnate  Love,  is  viewed  as  the 
revelation  of  God  to  men.  This  conception  shifts  into  an- 
other, —  that  Christ  is  the  ideal  of  humanity.  Viewed  as 
a  historic  and  purely  human  character,  he  exemplifies 
that  spirit  of  fidelity  and  love  and  trust  and  hope  which 
is  the  true  law  of  human  life.  When  accepted  as  such  an 
ideal,  it  matters  little  though  the  supernatural  features  of 
the  story  fade  away ;  it  matters  little  that  the  personality 
of  Jesus  may  have  been  enriched  by  the  creative  imagina- 
tion of  eighteen  hundred  years.  The  conception  is  reached 
that  the  religious  life  is  not  dependent  on  any  interpre- 
tation of  the  New  Testament  story,  but  that  the  essence 
of  religion  is  aspiration  and  effort  toward  those  traits  of 
character,  that  moral  ideal,  which  is  familiarly  and  vividly 
associated  with  the  name  of  Christ.  And  further,  as  any 
noble  and  beloved  human  being  impressively  suggests 
some  divine  source  and  original,  so  Christ,  as  the  supreme 
type  of  humanity,  is  felt  to  be  the  symbol  and  pledge  of 
God.  Not  in  a  dogmatic,  but  in  a  natural  sense,  the  Son 


THE   RELIGION    OF    TO-DAY.  585 

reveals  the  Father  :  all  highest  humanity  mirrors  Deity. 
This  Christ-ideal  involves  a  filial  attitude  toward  God,  an 
expectant  attitude  toward  a  world  beyond  this.  Are  those 
attitudes  justified  in  the  light  of  our  present  knowledge  ? 

The  broadest  result  of  man's  study  of  the  world  and 
its  inhabitants  is  his  discovery  of  an  ordered  and  upward 
growth  through  uncounted  ages  —  which  we  name  Evo- 
lution. That  discovery,  made  within  our  own  generation, 
is  working  a  revolution  in  thought  and  sentiment,  of 
which  we  cannot  yet  predict  the  limits.  It  has  given  the 
central  clue  which  guides  a  thousand  special  lines  of  in- 
vestigation. It  has  touched  the  mind  with  a  strange 
blending  of  awe,  hope,  exultation,  and  depression.  Fill- 
ing the  imagination  with  its  stupendous  drama  of  the  past 
and  future  of  the  world,  it  has  often  operated  to  becloud 
if  not  to  deny  those  hopes  and  fears  of  the  individual 
which  are  touched  with  the  greatness  of  eternity.  It 
brings  a  new  significance  to  man's  individual  character 
and  deeds  as  one  element  in  a  mighty  whole,  but  it  sug- 
gests that  the  individual  himself  is  transient.  It  dispels 
the  vagary  of  a  chance  world,  not  less  than  it  displaces 
the  notion  of  a  world  regulated  by  occasional  divine  inter- 
ference. It  reveals  universal  Order  —  but  what  of  uni- 
versal Goodness  ?  It  sets  man  in  a  vast  and  endless 
brotherhood  —  but  is  it  a  brotherhood  in  which  each 
member  is  but  a  vanishing  atom  ? 

From  Evolution,  the  process,  the  inquiring  mind  re- 
verts to  the  Soul,  the  result.  It  ponders  afresh  those 
experiences  of  consciousness  which  have  somehow  been 
generated  in  man  as  we  see  him  —  the  latest  term  in  the 
long  series  of  progress.  Evolution,  studied  as  a  history, 
does  not  adequately  explain  Man  as  he  is.  We  must 
study  the  existing  Man,  and  in  the  highest  phases  of  his 
being,  if  we  would  understand  what  the  slow  creative  pro- 
cess means.  Darwin  essays  to  explain  the  evolution  of 
the  eye.  But  the  fundamental  fact  is  that  man  does  see. 


586  LUCY  SMITH. 

He  not  only  has  visual  sensation,  but  he  receives  through 
it  the  invincible  assurance  of  external  reality.  Trace 
if  you  can,  man  of  science,  the  growth  of  the  seeing  organ, 
and  the  seeing  faculty  —  but,  giving  to  that  history  its 
whole  significance,  is  the  present  fact  that  man  sees. 

And  so,  more  fundamental  than  any  exposition  of  the 
process  by  which  man  came  to  be  what  he  is,  is  the  fact  of 
what  he  is.  He  is,  in  his  highest  aspect,  a  being  who 
thinks,  acts,  obeys,  loves,  trusts,  hopes.  It  is  in  these 
relations  that  we  give  to  his  nature  its  name  of  Soul. 

By  various  attraction,  which  we  call  Love,  man  is 
united  to  his  fellow-beings.  At  first  he  is  drawn  to  one 
who  gives  him  pleasure  —  then  he  is  won  to  reciprocate 
that  pleasure.  And  at  last  he  reaches  the  height  where 
Jesus  says,  "  Love  them  that  hate  you !  "  His  nature  ex- 
pands toward  friend,  neighbor,  enemy  even ;  and  at  last 
toward  all  his  kind,  in  a  sentiment  whose  new  birth  our 
age  hails  under  new  titles,  "  the  solidarity  of  the  race," 
"  the  enthusiasm  of  humanity."  And  together  with  this 
broadening,  the  special  tie  of  one  individual  soul  to 
another,  the  union  of  friend  with  friend,  of  husband  with 
wife,  rises  to  greater  intensity,  takes  on  a  profounder  sig- 
nificance, and  kindles  a  light  which  no  shadows  of  fear 
and  the  unknown  can  subdue. 

Man  trusts  some  power  above  himself.  That  Trust  is 
deeper  than  any  reasons  he  can  give  for  it,  and  stronger 
than  any  reasons  which  can  be  urged  against  it.  His 
trust  when  at  its  best  is  purely  filial  —  it  is  a  blending  of 
obedience  with  confidence.  It  is  this  element  of  obedi- 
ence, the  actual  submission  of  the  will  to  the  highest  law 
it  can  discern,  which  gives  the  inmost  reality  to  trust, 
and  which  can  never  be  adequately  expressed  in  intellect- 
ual terms.  Beauty  and  music  cannot  be  fully  conveyed 
in  words,  can  only  be  hinted  at ;  and  so  is  it  with  the 
"  peace  which  passeth  understanding,"  whose  springs  are 
not  in  thought  but  in  life.  It  is  the  saint's  secret.  And 


THE  RELIGION   OF   TO-DAY.  587 

while  the  forms  of  religious  thought  and  speech  may 
change  as  does  the  fashion  of  garments,  that  joy  and  peace 
which  belong  to  the  saintly  character  are  as  little  likely 
to  be  lost  by  the  advancing  race  as  poetry  or  music  or  eye- 
sight. 

Trust  is  purified  by  growing  knowledge ;  we  no  longer 
look  for  pestilence  to  spare  the  good  man  ;  and  neither  do 
we  limit  our  trust  to  the  ultimate  welfare  of  the  good 
man  —  it  embraces  the  bad  man  too,  it  includes  the  race. 
And  with  it  blend  such  instincts  and  emotions  as  we  name 
Aspiration,  Adoration,  Gratitude.  These  take  on  purer 
and  richer  forms  as  humanity  advances.  The  sense  of  a 
sacramental  significance  in  nature's  beauty,  the  thrill  of 
reverential  awe  before  sea  and  mountain  and  sunset,  which 
has  found  its  fullest  expression  in  this  century  of  Words- 
worth and  Emerson,  is  as  marvellous  an  acquisition  of  ad- 
vancing man  as  is  the  development  of  one  physical  sense 
after  another.  Here  too  we  trace  growth,  from  an  early 
stage ;  we  are  children  of  the  Hebrew  whose  psalm  voiced 
his  gladness  in  the  works  of  the  Lord,  and  of  the  Greek 
whose  pulse  quickened  at  the  coming  of  "  divine  Dawn  " 
—  but  we  see  and  feel  more  than  they  did. 

And  Hope,  too,  like  Love  and  Trust,  survives  all 
changes,  and  from  all  fluctuations  and  ebbings  emerges 
purer  and  stronger.  It  ceases  to  lean  on  stories  of  the 
resurrection  of  the  body.  It  listens  reverently  for  the 
gravest,  weightiest  word  that  Knowledge  can  speak  —  to 
find  at  last  neither  clear  affirmation  nor  denial.  Beside 
the  grave,  the  last  word  of  Knowledge  is  "  a  great  Per- 
haps." And  still  man  hopes  —  hopes  for  himself  and  for 
his  fellows  some  further,  nobler  existence,  some  survival 
of  what  is  dearest  and  most  essential,  under  what  condi- 
tions he  is  content  not  to  know.  This  reverent  expect- 
ance blends  with  the  noblest  qualities  in  him.  It  sustains 
moral  aspiration  with  the  instinct  that  beyond  all  passing 
defeats  lies  victory  at  last.  It  gives  to  love  its  full 


588  LUCY  SMITH. 

grandeur.  It  is  one  aspect  of  that  reliance  on  a  higher 
power,  of  which  the  other  aspect  is  reverent  acquiescence 
in  an  unknown  but  perfect  Will :  in  one  type  of  natures 
the  acquiescence  predominates,  and  in  another  type  the 
personal  hope  is  vivid.  That  Hope  may  be  hushed  amid 
the  din  of  contending  thought ;  it  is  almost  lost  in  the 
glare  of  noonday  activities ;  but  in  the  supreme  exigencies 
of  life,  in  the  lonely  hour  of  utmost  need,  or  by  the  grave 
of  the  beloved,  Hope  rises  again  and  shines  serene,  sacred, 
quenchless. 

Christ  —  the  noblest  ideal  of  manhood  ;  Evolution  — 
the  observed  and  actual  course  of  mankind  in  its  upward 
emergence  ;  the  Soul  —  man  in  the  attitude  of  obedience, 
love,  trust,  and  hope :  these  three  witnesses  are  not  dis- 
cordant. 

Here  —  to  come  back  to  our  personal  story  —  here  in 
this  mixed  and  troublous  present  is  one  life,  a  woman's 
life,  lived  out  in  full  experience  of  joy  and  anguish,  and 
in  full  presence  of  all  the  thoughts  and  doubts  of  this 
thinking  and  doubting  age.  Do  we  not  see  in  her  the 
finest  graces  that  flowered  under  the  old  faith?  Charity 
in  act,  thought,  feeling  ;  humility,  trust,  hope,  —  how  all 
these  shine  in  her !  From  her  hope  indeed  there  is  absent 
that  absolute  assurance  which  Christianity  professes. 
But  the  value  and  beauty  of  hope,  as  a  trait  of  character, 
in  no  wise  depends  on  the  certainty  of  its  expectation. 
Kather,  in  its  essential  nature  hope  differs  from  knowl- 
edge ;  its  bloom,  its  tenderness,  its  trust,  lie  in  the  projec- 
tion of  its  look  into  the  realm  of  mystery  where  knowledge 
cannot  penetrate.  "  Hope  that  is  seen^  says  the  apostle, 
"  is  not  hope,  for  what  a  man  seeth  why  doth  he  yet  hope 
for  ?  "  A  future  absolutely  known  would  leave  no  room 
for  that  noble  faculty.  "  But  if  we  hope  for  that  we  see 
not,  then  do  we  with  patience  wait  for  it."  Yes,  with  pa- 
tience, that  grandest  patience  which  not  only  accepts  post- 
ponemeut  in  time,  but  submits  tho  final  event  itself  to  the 


THE  RELIGION   OF   TO-DAY.  589 

Perfect  Will.  And  so  this  ardent  yet  unsure  hope,  this 
great  patience,  have  their  roots  in  the  profoundest  trust. 
It  is  a  trust  that  can  rest  in  the  simplest  of  affirma- 
tions. "  If  we  knew  all,  we  should  be  satisfied,"  —  that 
thought  occurs  in  Lucy  Smith's  letters ;  it  was  a  rock  to 
her  feet  when  all  else  seemed  to  fluctuate.  It  is  the  same 
thought  which  in  "  Thorndale  "  shines  out  at  the  last :  "  He 
who  has  doubted  here  [as  to  the  existence  of  God],  and 
then  regained  his  faith,  will  feel  so  singular  a  gladness  that 
he  will  be  thenceforth  almost  indifferent  as  to  what  else  is 
doubtful.  .  .  .  Light  broke  through  ;  the  sun  was  again 
in  the  heavens ;  the  whole  world  beamed  forth  with  reason 
and  with  love,  and  I  found  myself  walking  humbly  and 
confidently  in  the  presence  of  God." 

The  old  religion  was  very  earnest  in  affirming  "  the  ex- 
ceeding sinfulness  of  sin."  It  painted  man's  guilt  in  hid- 
eous colors,  and  measured  its  enormity  by  the  award  of  an 
everlasting  torment.  Modern  thought  attributes  moral 
evil  very  largely  to  causes  beyond  the  individual's  respon- 
sibility. It  minimizes  the  good  or  ill  desert  of  man. 
But  it  recognizes  the  miserable  reality,  the  miserable  con- 
sequences, of  a  low  moral  state  ;  the  beautiful  reality,  the 
blessed  consequences,  of  a  high  moral  state.  It  addresses 
to  whatever  utmost  power  of  improvement  lies  in  man  the 
motives  not  of  a  fictitious  hell,  but  of  facts  which  he  dis- 
cerns and  feels. 

The  best  fruit  of  the  old  idea  of  human  sinfulness  was 
seen  in  that  lovely  humility  which  developed  in  the 
saintly  character.  The  value  of  humility  is  in  the  impulse 
it  gives  to  aspiration  and  effort.  But  this  humility  does 
not  disappear  from  the  world  when  man  ceases  to  believe 
himself  a  hell-deserving  creature,  saved  only  by  a  divine 
sacrifice.  The  truth  which  that  dogma  crudely  embodied  is 
discerned  in  sober  but  not  less  effective  form  by  the  pure 
and  aspiring  heart  to-day.  This  trait  of  humility,  was  it 
ever  more  sweetly  shown  than  in  the  woman  portrayed  in 


590  LUCY  SMITH. 

these  letters  ?  By  her  sensitiveness  to  goodness,  by  the 
loftiness  of  her  ideal,  by  the  reverent  upward  look  toward 
all  spiritual  beauty  and  greatness,  she  is  kept  always  hum- 
ble, is  drawn  always  toward  nobler  heights. 

The  withdrawal  from  the  moral  judgment  of  the  ele- 
ment of  unqualified  reprobation  permits  an  interpretation 
of  human  lives  which  wonderfully  expands  the  sympa- 
thies. Nothing  is  more  marked  in  the  development  of 
Lucy  Smith's  later  years  than  the  charity  of  judgment  — 
a  charity  born  as  much  of  true  discernment  as  of  generous 
feeling.  It  links  her  closely  with  all  mankind.  In  almost 
every  one  she  finds  some  trait  of  nobility,  or  if  she  finds 
none,  the  perception  or  the  presumption  of  the  causes  that 
have  thwarted  growth  waken  in  her  a  pity  that  is  in  itself 
a  tie. 

Man  can  propound  to  himself  no  more  interesting 
question  than  that  of  a  hereafter.  And  yet,  there  is 
something  more  essential  than  a  confident  affirmation  upon 
that  question.  To  know  is  less  than  to  be.  This  yearning 
woman  does  not  find  certainty,  but,  we  reverently  say, 
something  better  is  wrought  in  her.  For  her  all  turns  to 
blessing.  Even  that  uncertainty  as  to  the  future  which 
sometimes  oppresses  her  —  in  the  bearing  of  it  she  grows 
more  patient ;  the  denied  desire  turns  to  strength.  Her 
affection  for  her  husband  loses  nothing  of  its  intensity, 
but  by  some  divine  chemistry,  while  keeping  all  its  per- 
sonal quality,  it  becomes  moral  aspiration  and  tender  sym- 
pathy. More  and  more  she  learns  the  lesson  expressed  in 
her  husband's  earliest  writings  —  to  live  in  the  present. 
God  has  placed  her  here,  —  whatever  unspeakable  bliss 
the  future  may  bring,  her  part  is  to  fill  full  the  present ; 
and  she  so  fills  it  that  to  each  friend  she  is  the  most 
satisfying  of  human  beings.  No  sorrow  in  the  past,  no 
beckoning  hope  in  the  future,  can  diminish  or  pale  that 
full  life  she  throws  into  the  needs,  joys,  sorrows,  of  all 
about  her. 


THE  RELIGION  OF   TO-DAY.  591 

If  before  the  beauty  of  earth  one  stands  awed,  and  wor- 
shipping the  Creative  Power,  how  much  more  before  a 
soul  like  this !  That  husbandry  by  which  the  plant  was 
tended,  that  joy  which  shone  upon  it,  that  anguish  which 
watered  it  —  how  divine  is  this  ordering  care  ! 

"  The  Lord  is  my  shepherd ;  I  shall  not  want.  He 
maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures ;  he  leadeth  me 
beside  the  still  waters.  He  restoreth  my  soul ;  he  leadeth 
me  in  the  paths  of  righteousness  for  his  name's  sake. 
Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death,  I  will  fear  no  evil,  for  thou  art  with  me ;  thy  rod 
and  thy  staff  they  comfort  me." 

Her  last  verses  are  dated  "St.  Mary's,  Edinburgh, 
Christinas  Day,  1880."  It  is  the  Roman  Catholic  chapel, 
where  the  candles  are  lighted  one  by  one  as  the  service 
proceeds. 

«  DIVERSELY  IN  MANY  WAYS." 

Light  the  candles  one  by  one, 
God's  great  work  is  but  begun  ; 
Some  were  lighted  long  ago, 
Caught  at  once  the  sacred  glow  ; 
Others  still  unlighted  stand, 
Out  of  reach  of  mortal  hand  ; 
Faculties  undreamt  of  still, 
Vaster  knowledge,  purer  will. 
These  our  faith  may  surely  deem 
Meant  to  catch  the  heavenly  beam  ; 
When  these  kindle  on  their  height, 
Wide  indeed  the  spread  of  light ! 
In  the  glory  then  displayed 
Lights  now  prized  may  seem  to  fade  ; 
Let  not  this  our  hearts  dismay, 
One  the  source  and  one  the  ray. 
"  Diverse,"  but  in  place  and  name, 
One  the  purpose  of  each  flame  ; 
Light  the  candles,  one  by  one, 
God  shall  end  what  God  begun. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

SUNSET   LIGHTS. 

"  SHE  was  in  the  fulness  of  her  beauty  and  wisdom," 
writes  Mrs.  Ruck  ;  "  never  was  she  tenderer  or  wiser 
than  in  the  last  year  of  her  sweet  life.  There  was  such  a 
wonderful  strain  of  rejoicing  in  these  last  days  that  even 
the  undercurrent  of  sadness  seemed  lost.  It  was  an  ex- 
quisite acquiescence  in  all  around  her.  She  was  like  an 
instrument  perfectly  in  tune  with  nature  and  the  circum- 
stances which  surrounded  her." 

• 

To  Mrs.  A.  Constable. 

BRIGHTON,  March  4, 1881. 

...  After  our  early  dinner,  dear  R.  and  I  went  to  the 
dancing  school,  to  me  a  quite  exhilarating  sight.  I  don't 
know  why  I,  who  am  passing  out  of  life,  and  have  no 
grandchildren,  should  look  with  such  tenderness  at  the 
little  lads  and  lassies  at  their  steps,  with  their  honest  en- 
deavours to  point  their  toes,  and  eyes  fixed  on  the  wonder- 
fully lively  and  springy  mistress.  Then  I  turned  in  to 

Miss  R ,  the  marvellous  old  lady  of  eighty-six,  whose 

activity,  and  rapidity  of  mind,  and  fluency  are  all  re- 
markable, though  sometimes,  like  her  juniors,  she  mis- 
takes or  miscalls  a  name.  Very  admirable  in  conduct,  I 
am  sure,  unworldly,  generous,  tolerant,  —  she  is  the  most 
thorough  sceptic  I  have  ever  met ;  calls  everything  in 
question,  and  is  a  pessimist  as  to  the  prospect  of  humanity, 
though  herself  so  brave  and  cheerful,  and  an  element  of 
happiness  to  others. 


SUNSET  LIGHTS.  593 

LONDON,  March  18,  1881. 

.  .  .  When  you  come  to  London  you  will  go  and  see 
the  Millais  Exhibition,  and  oh,  you  will  not  fail  to  doat 
on  the  bull  terrier  who  is  consoling  the  child.  Perhaps 
you  have  seen  it.  The  tender  roll  of  the  dear  creature's 
projecting  and  plain  eyes  seems  to  me  the  most  marvel- 
lous achievement  of  this  wonderful  painter,  who  paints 
eyes  I  think  as  no  other  does.  At  the  Miss  R.'s  we  saw 
such  work,  my  Mary,  as  I  do  not  expect  to  see  at  the 
School  of  Art.  The  cleverness  of  people  amazes  me  more 
and  more.  .  .  .  Sunday  will  be  a  busy  day.  I  lure  Sophy 
to  the  Greek  Church,  where  there  is  to  be  a  solemn  re- 
quiem for  the  poor  Czar.  In  the  afternoon  Westminster 
Abbey,  and  tea  with  Ethel,  and  probably  I  shall  go  to  the 
Carmelites  in  the  evening.  Monday  dear  General  Cotton 
takes  me  to  see  the  Deaf  Mutes  in  the  morning,  and  in 
the  afternoon  I  hope  to  reach  Blackheath  with  dear  Mrs. 
Sowton.  And  the  other  days  are  all  full.  Indeed  I 
should  enjoy  going  about  with  you,  my  pretty  one !  I 
often  wonder  how  it  is  there  is  this  life  and  vivid  interest 
in  me.  "  God  hath  made  me  so,"  —  nor  would  my  only 
loved,  in  the  deep  centre  of  my  personality,  blame  me,  I 
know. 

GARTHEWIN,  April  2,  1881. 

.  .  .  This  morning  I  have  been  reading  the  "  Times " 
aloud  to  S.  while  she  knitted,  and  she  said  she  much 
liked  being  read  to.  To  myself  I  read  a  letter  of  Lord 
Pembroke,  which  seemed  to  me  that  of  a  very  superior, 
thoughtful  man,  having  the  historical  sense.  He  is  ad- 
verse to  what  he  expects  the  coming  Land  Bill  to  be,  and 
indeed,  I  dare  say  it  will  be  a  mere  treating  of  symptoms, 
palliations  instead  of  attempts  at  a  radical  cure.  But 
when  a  country  is  managed  by  Government  and  Opposi- 
tion, how  ensure  time  for  the  slower  process?  Politics 
and  doctoring  are  alike  empirical.  But  the  larger  wisdom 
that  belongs  to  a  few  will  spread,  and  meanwhile  there 


594  LUCY  SMITH. 

must  be  dissatisfaction,  or  there  would  be  no  ideal  and 
life  would  stagnate  altogether.  But  these  fundamen- 
tal truths  are  mere  offence  to  nine  out  of  ten,  who  talk 
their  newspapers  the  best  they  can,  and  enjoy  the  excite- 
ment of  a  vague  belief  in  everything  going  to  the  dogs  ; 
much  as  rustics  like  a  funeral,  or  strongly  denounced  dam- 
nation ! 

GAKTHEWLN,  April  20, 1881. 

What  a  glorious  day  it  is,  though  the  north  wind  is 
high  and  keen.  Just  the  day  that  my  angel  loved,  and 
he  has  been  with  me  every  step  of  the  way.  Oh,  the 
agony  of  love  and  hope  !  How  blessed  life  and  death 
seemed !  The  view  from  what  is  known  as  Mary's  Ter- 
race was  quite  perfect,  but  I  went  high,  and  sat  sheltered 
by  a  gorse  bush,  and  saw  Snowdon  emerge  from  cloudi- 
ness into  sharp  outline.  The  colour,  the  light,  the  joy  of 
the  rooks,  the  shining  hollies,  the  silver-sheathed  buds  of 
the  sycamores,  —  the  thankfulness  for  what  has  been  ! 
Snap  follows  so  closely  and  even  deigns  to  sit,  while  I 
read,  and  live  in  memory.  Nature  is  to  me  an  ecstasy  on 
days  like  this. 

To  Miss  Violetta  Smith. 

There  never  was  a  lovelier  spring  day  than  yesterday, 
and  I  had  a  longing  for  a  mountain  walk,  so  S.  and  I 
set  off  for  the  top  of  a  nice  manageable  hill  of  about 
1000  feet,  from  which  there  is  a  glorious  view  of  the  whole 
Snowdon  range  and  also  of  the  sea.  We  passed  a  cottage 
high  on  the  hill,  and  the  poor  woman  came  out,  and 
though  she  did  not  speak  English  nor  I  Welsh,  I  made 
out  that  she  had  a  sick  son.  Alas,  dying  of  consumption, 
wasting  away  —  it  was  most  pathetic.  There  was  no  pov- 
erty, but  of  course  the  little  delicacies  one  would  like  for 
all  sick  people  could  not  be  procured.  Brownlow  said  at 
once  when  he  heard  of  the  youth  that  he  would  send,  and 
so  he  has  this  evening ;  but  I  could  not  resist  going  again 


SUNSET  LIGHTS.  595 

myself  this  afternoon,  and  it  was  worth  a  longer  climb  to 
see  the  poor  dying  youth  smile  over  the  sweet  tea  roses, 
and  say  that  what  I  put  into  his  mouth  was  nice.  Oh, 
my  Vi,  how  thankful  the  heart  is  for  any  power  of  render- 
ing the  smallest  service ! 

Their  talk  was  too  much  of  the  dark  side  of  village 
life  to  help  on  my  spirits.  Oh,  more  and  more  I  feel  that 
we  only  "  live  by  admiration,  hope,  and  love."  The  dark 
side  is  there,  like  the  daily  processes  of  physical  deteriora- 
tion and  dying  of  the  effete  and  used-up,  which  form  part 
of  our  hourly  experience  of  these  bodies  of  ours;  but 
they  are  not  to  be  dwelt  upon,  it  is  not  they  which  make 
up  the  outward  and  visible  personality,  but  rather  the 
light  in  the  eye,  the  tenderness  in  the  smile.  I  am  not 
blaming  these  dear  ones,  who  are  better  than  I,  and  more 
energetic  in  their  efforts  to  do  good,  —  but  explaining 
how  it  is  that  the  evening  rather  lowered  my  vitality. 

To  Mrs.  Lorimer. 

GABTHEWIN,  April  26,  1881. 

To  think  that  during  the  last  two  months  we  have  never 
exchanged  one  word !  Oh,  I  hope  and  trust  that  on  this 
glorious  day  you  are  quite  happy  about  Mr.  Lorimer,  that 
he  has  quite  shaken  off  the  attack  I  was  sorry  to  hear  of 
two  days  ago.  This  is  one  of  those  days  when  joy  seems 
the  law  of  this  life.  Does  sunshine  thus  exhilarate  those 
accustomed  to  it  ?  To  me  this  is  a  day  that  brings  back 
all  the  blessedness  of  that  past,  "  more  actual  than  any 
present,"  in  which  alone  I  can  be  said  to  live.  And  I 
am  so  unspeakably  relieved  by  Archie's  letter  of  this 
morning  about  his  precious  father.  ...  I  wish  you  had 
been  with  me  just  now,  sitting  on  dryest,  softest  moss, 
and  tolerably  sheltered  by  a  furze  bush,  looking  over 
treetops,  silver-budded  sycamores,  shining  hollies,  red- 
branched  birches,  across  a  soft  landscape  of  undulating 


596  LUCY   SMITH. 

and  wooded  ground,  over  which  clouds  were  sweeping 
their  blue  shadows  to  the  glorious  Snowdon  range.  Oh, 
such  a  sky  !  Such  cohorts  of  snowy  clouds  marching  out 
of  the  northwest !  I  did  not  get  high  enough  to  see  the 
sea.  But  this  is  a  most  sweet  country,  preferable  to  dear 
Patterdale  because  here  one  can  walk  for  hours  where 
tourist  never  was  seen.  Now  that  you  have  that  perfect 
country  home,  I  feel  I  shall  never  have  a  chance  of  you 
for  one  of  these  quiet  walks,  with  more  in  the  point  of 
companionship  than  months  of  such  meetings  as  towns  al- 
low. I  might  as  well  wish  for  any  other  unattainability. 
But  I  do  not  leave  off  feeling  how  delightful  it  would  be 
to  have  your  dear  society  in  some  solitude,  for  the  little, 
little  space  of  time  you  with  all  your  tendrils  could  endure 
it.  ...  My  brother  has  been  delightfully  energetic  and 
well  these  last  days.  Tenants,  well-wishers,  and  neigh- 
bours have  got  up  a  "  Testimonial  to  his  public  and  pri- 
vate worth  and  usefulness."  The  subscription  has  reached 
£400  ;  but  while  some  insist  on  a  portrait  and  engraving 
from  it,  others  wish  the  sum  devoted  to  a  more  practical 
and  permanent  purpose.  So  there  must  be  a  compromise. 
His  are  very  variable  looks  —  a  plain  face  into  which  al- 
most beauty  comes  every  now  and  then.  Perhaps  we  all 
think  this  of  the  faces  we  know  best,  and  perhaps  it  is  so, 
the  divine  showing  through  at  times. 

To  President  Porter. 

PATTERDALE,  May  8,  1881. 

I  have  much  to  thank  you  for,  dear  Dr.  Porter  —  your 
photograph  —  but  it  does  not  replace  the  smaller  one  I 
unaccountably  lost.  I  am  sure  it  does  you  less  justice, 
and  that  Mrs.  Porter  is  not  satisfied.  Understand  that  I 
am  very  glad  to  have  it,  but  instinctively  know  it  to  be 
less  successful,  less  characteristic,  than  the  one  I  regret. 
Then  it  is  to  you  that  I  gratefully  owe  the  friendship  of 
Mr. .  I  can  use  no  slighter  word  in  the  case  of  one 


SUNSET  LIGHTS.  597 

who  has  sent  me  such  letters  as  he  has  done.  The  first 
reached  me  during  the  last  days  of  March  —  last  days  of 
our  life,  which  closed  nine  years  ago.  How  long,  how 
short  those  years !  I  know  not  which  to  call  them.  If 
reunion  came,  they  would  seem  but  a  moment,  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye.  And  I  thankfully  acknowledge  that  they 
have  been  fraught  with  much  quiet  interest  and  even 
sweetness,  and  that  he  who  was  the  best  and  highest  / 
have  known  has  in  some  deep  unutterable  sense  been  with 
me  through  them  all.  On  this  exquisite  spring  morning 
I  have  been  reading  over  George  Eliot's  letters  to  me. 
Each  a  gem  —  so  tender,  so  finished  —  in  the  lovely  hand- 
writing of  one  incapable  of  slurring  over  or  doing  the 
slightest  thing  otherwise  than  perfectly.  That  acquaint- 
anceship (but  she  gave  it  a  warmer  name),  like  all  else  in 
my  life  of  highest  interest,  came  to  me  from  my  husband. 
I  think  some  day  I  must  write  down  what  I  remember  of 
our  three  or  four  meetings,  they  are  so  vividly  remem- 
bered. I  was  much  interested  in  the  paper  you  wrote, 
and  in  that  glimpse  of  her,  silent  and  tearful.  There  was 
another  article  written  by  a  woman,  full  of  generous  en- 
thusiasm, and  showing  perhaps  somewhat  closer  agree- 
ment with  George  Eliot's  views.  Sad  views,  yet  how 
much  grander  than  the  hideous  theological  conceptions  in 
which  (oh,  anomaly !)  I  was  sedulously  trained  by  the 
sweetest  mother  —  by  one  whose  gentle  spirit  would  have 
harmed  no  living  creature,  would  have  helped  and  deliv- 
ered and  forgiven  and  loved  to  the  utmost  —  views  my 

next  of  kin  still  hold.     With  Mr. 's  articles  I  feel 

in  closest  agreement,  and  it  is  by  that  rule  I  desire  to 
live  ever  more  and  more  closely.  That  is  essential 
Christianity  —  but  though  this  one  name  must  be  to  us, 
from  hereditary  influence  and  early  association,  above 
every  name,  yet  the  law  of  love  was  owned  and  pro- 
mulgated in  sundry  times  and  various  ways,  and  I  can- 
not limit  the  divine  working  to  any  one  mode.  Happy 


598  LUCY  SMITH. 

some  of  us  who  have  had  the  noblest  and  best  to  live  with 
familiarly,  to  love  with  all  our  souls  in  this  life's  sweetest 
fondness,  and  then  to  worship  as  an  ideal,  and  seek  to  fol- 
low after.  There  comes  this  rising  again  to  our  beloved 
dead.  Dear  Dr.  Porter,  can  you  bear  with  so  much  heresy? 
Believe  that  I  try  —  I  am  not  one  of  heroic  type,  and 
capable  of  much,  —  but  I  do  try  to  expel  from  my  spirit 
all  elements  that  are  unworthy  of  this  life  at  its  highest, 
how  then  of  life  continued  on  a  nobler  plane !  —  and  to 
cherish  and  foster  the  love  that  "  seeketh  not  its  own," 
and  is  conceivable  as  "  abiding." 

I  suppose  you  have  been  saddened  by  the  indiscretion 
that  has  made  it  so  easy  for  us  all  to  cavil  at  and  seek  to 
degrade  our  great  Carlyle.  His  will  and  his  niece's  letter 
amply  justify  him  from  the  desire  to  make  public  what  in 
his  great  loneliness  and  darkness  he  perhaps  unwittingly 
wrote.  Oh,  I  trust  Froude's  lamentable  error  may  be 
forgotten,  after  the  critics  have  done  their  worst,  and  that 
the  indulgence  that  Carlyle's  constitutional  sufferings 
seem  always  to  have  demanded  may  be  found  compatible 
with  the  old  reverence  his  gifts  and  his  great  unworldly 
career  surely  deserved.  Two  months  ago  I  stood  before 
his  house — so  dingy,  so  neglected-looking.  He  who  had 
lost  his  "  light  of  life  "  never  can  have  cared  to  brighten 
up  his  dwelling  since.  I  stood  too  before  George  Eliot's 
recent  home  —  so  fresh,  ornate,  cheerful  outwardly  —  I 
felt  it  the  sadder  of  the  two. 

A.nd  now  I  have  returned  to  sweet  Patterdale.  It  has 
now  its  Reading-room  and  its  Lending  Library.1  There 
is  little  intellectual  stir  here,  and  the  public-houses  are  too 
much  frequented.  But  I  like  to  feel  that  these  small  ad- 
vantages are  the  consequence  of  my  husband's  having 
loved  these  hills  and  trees  three-and-twenty  years  ago. 

The  two  following  letters  were  written  to  one  who  says : 
1  Both  established  by  her. 


SUNSET  LIGHTS.  599 

u  I  owe  my  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Smith  to  a  common 
friend  who  sent  to  her  a  newspaper  containing  an  article 
of  mine  on  George  Eliot,  written  at  the  time  of  her  death  ; 
and  an  allusion  on  her  part  to  this  article  led  him  to  show 
her  letter  to  me.  I  had  never  heard  of  her  before,  and 
scarcely  known  of  her  husband.  But  the  tone  in  which  she 
alluded  to  him  who  had  been  outwardly  parted  from  her 
for  many  years  moved  me  greatly.  Under  that  impulse 
I  wrote  to  her  with  a  freedom  such  as  one  would  ordina- 
rily use  only  to  an  intimate  friend.  I  think  this  power  to 
instantly  unlock  the  heart  was  characteristic  of  her.  She 
was  like  pure  spirit,  —  all  barrier,  all  disguise,  seemed  to 
fall  away  in  listening  to  her.  I  shall  never  forget  how 
her  answer  stirred  my  heart.  We  corresponded  for  one 
short  year  —  some  four  letters  on  each  side  —  and  then, 
from  relatives  who  seemed  to  share  something  of  her  own 
lovely  kindness,  came  the  news  of  her  death  —  and  I  felt 
that  one  of  my  most  treasured  friends  was  gone." 

April  9,  1881. 

DEAR  SIR  :  —  Your  letter  reached  me  this  day  fortnight, 
forwarded  from  Edinburgh  to  Brighton,  whither  I  had 
gone  to  spend  the  last  days  of  March.  The  twenty-eighth 
was  the  anniversary  of  the  parting,  and  when  I  tell  you 
that  on  that  day  I  took  your  letter  to  re-read  beside  our 
grave,  you  will  know,  more  fully  than  I  can  tell  you  in 
any  other  way,  what  that  letter  was  to  me.  I  thanked 
God  for  it,  —  for  as  you  truly  say,  all  our  best  things 
come  to  us  as  gifts,  with  a  singular  suddenness  and  unex- 
pectedness, and  yet  some  sense  of  familiarity  too,  as 
though  they  had  belonged  to  us  while  we  knew  it  not. 
Your  experience  is  very  sacred  to  me,  and  very  sustain- 
ing. Such  love  is  not  of  the  dead  but  of  the  living.  It  is 
a  blessed  experience,  and  to  know  of  it  will  I  think  help 
me  always.  I  dare  not  say  I  fully  share  it.  I  suffered  so 
unspeakably,  the  agony  of  loss  seemed  to  kill  the  power  of 


600  LUCY  SMITH. 

any  hoping.  Yet  that  hope  was  all  I  had,  and  I  clung  to 
it  desperately  as  to  some  priceless  treasure  that  had  life  in 
it  and  might  strengthen  and  grow.  And  at  the  worst  it 
was  more  the  hope  of  eternal  present  life  for  the  loved 
one  —  more  his  joy,  his  being  (which  even  here  included 
joy)  that  I  craved  —  yes,  even  more  than  our  reunion ! 

I  thank  you  very  reverently  for  telling  me  of  your  per- 
fect union.  I  know  all  it  means  —  incommunicable  in  its 
sweetness,  but  recognized  as  absolute  by  such  souls  as 
have  once  known.  I  have  now  been  alone  nine  years.  An 
old  constitutional  cheerfulness  has  revived,  but  personal 
joy  went  with  the  one.  Yet  such  love  as  lives  and  grows 
and  absorbs  all  one's  nature  into  itself  has  a  joy.  It  is 
one's  personality,  and  brings  with  it  a  deep  contentment. 
The  Creator  could  not  have  done  more  for  his  creature  than 
he  has  done  for  it,  Now  remains  memory,  and  quiet  and 
patient  waiting. 

I  have  read  all  your  papers  with  intimate  agreement. 
...  It  is  of  the  letter  on  Eternal  Life  I  think  especially 
when  I  speak  of  an  intimate  and  intense  agreement. 
Your  teaching  is  that  of  my  husband,  who,  at  the  age  of 
twenty,  wrote  in  "  The  Athenaeum  "  of  the  main  point  for 
us  being  to  "live  like  immortals  here."  (I  think  it  is  only 
such  as  do  this  who  inspire  immortal  love.)  I  should 
much  like  to  have  all  those  papers  of  yours.  You  have 
kindly  sent  me  two.  They  will  be  republished,  I  cannot 
doubt,  and  I  should  value  them  in  a  more  durable  form, 
for  the  light  they  shed  is  one  that  one  wants  to  diffuse. 
So  many  torches  loudly  proffered  have  more  smoke  than 
light,  and  the  light  is  only  glare. 

I  am  venturing  to  send  you  by  post  a  book  of  my  hus- 
band's. "  Thorndale  "  is  better  known,  but  to  "  Graven- 
hurst"  there  is  prefixed  a  brief  and  very  inadequate 
sketch  of  the  author.  But  I  want  you  to  know  even  thus 
much  of  him.  You  have  described  his  quiet  life,  "  creat- 
ing about  it  an  atmosphere  of  trust  and  peace."  His 


SUNSET  LIGHTS.  601 

own  works  reveal  him  best.  But  the  little  memoir  may 
serve  like  a  poor  photograph,  to  give  an  idea  of  the  man 
—  light,  color,  all  wanting  —  still,  one  says  of  a  photo- 
graph "  better  than  nothing,  and,  as  far  as  it  goes,  true." 
That  he  is  still  guidance,  strength,  motive,  I  need  not  say 
to  you.  When  I  am  saddest  and  worst,  it  is  that  he  seems 
so  far  and  hopelessly  out  of  reach.  When  life  has  its 
divine  meaning,  even  for  one  so  obscure  as  I,  he  draws 
near.  I  often  borrow  St.  Paul's  words;  "Not  I  —  he 
lives  in  me."  And  those  lines  of  Tennyson,  once  heard 
from  the  one  voice,  are  said  broken  and  tearfully  ever 
since  that  voice  was  hushed  —  in  many  and  many  a  lovely 
place,  beneath  cloudy  or  quiet  blue  skies :  — 

"  Though  blent  with  God  and  Nature  thou, 
I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more" 

I  have  written  out  a  sonnet  of  Emily  Pfeiffer,  because 
it  says  what  your  letter  says.  Those  who  have  loved  en- 
tirely do  seem  to  have  the  witness  in  themselves,  in.  some 
invincible  sense.  Do  you  know  her  poems  ?  I  ask  —  as 
though  it  were  likely  you  would  make  time  to  write  to  me 
again.  Perhaps  you  may  —  and  therefore  I  subjoin  my 
most  permanent  address,  though  I  am  not  there  now  — 
Grisedale  Bridge,  Patterdale,  Penrith,  Cumberland.  I 
like  to  think  that  you  will  know  what  that  address  means 
for  me. 

MRS.   PFEIFFER'S  SONNET. 

O  Love,  on  thee  a  burden  has  been  laid, 
Now  in  these  later  days  of  doubt  and  dread. 
Be  pure,  that  thou  be  strong,  and  unafraid 
To  meet  the  hosts  with  which  thou  art  bestead. 
Thou  only  champion  of  the  soul  —  blasphemed 
By  arrogant  young  Science  —  show  thine  eyes 
Immortal,  and  thy  pledges  unredeemed, 
Then  challenge  them  to  shut  thee  from  the  skies  I 
O  Love,  with  thee  we  fall,  by  thee  we  rise  ! 
Be  pure,  that  thou  be  strong,  in  Death's  despite, 


602  LUCY  SMITH. 

Then  creeds  may  wax  and  wane  'mid  tears  and  sighs. 
But  never  shall  the  world  be  lost  in  night  : 
Thine  is  the  one  evangel,  through  all  forms 
Of  change  surviving,  riding  out  all  storms. 

PATTERDALE,  May  22,  1881. 

Your  letter  reached  me  nearly  three  weeks  ago.  The 
impulse  was  to  answer  it  at  once.  I  hardly  know  why, 
but  one  gets  the  habit  I  think  of  refusing  one's  self  such 
indulgences.  Then  came  gloomy  days  of  our  habitual 
rain.  I  waited  to  writj  to  you  in  the  sunshine,  as  I  do 
this  morning,  when  the  inmates  are  at  church,  and  the 
cottage  is  quite  still.  And  through  the  open  window  the 
birds  sing  of  present  joy,  and  the  brook  ripples  of  some- 
thing more  permanent  —  has  past  and  future  in  it.  You 
know  now  (I  am  so  glad  you  do  !)  why  Patterdale  is  dear 
to  me.  That  day  you  waited  in  the  little  town  of  Pen- 
rith,  you  were  but  fifteen  miles  off. 

That  my  letter  should  have  proved  solacing  to  you  is 
one  of  those  blessed  facts  one  can  never  understand,  ex- 
cept through  a  glow  of  thankfulness.  Yours  has  been 
read  and  re-read  with  an  ever  deepening  emotion.  I  am 
so  glad  to  know  the  name  by  which  your  angel  was 
called.  Never,  never  have  I  read  so  exquisite  a  last  utter- 
ance as  that  of  hers.  Well  may  it  be  your  gospel  ever 
since  !  Her  love  had  become  divine  even  here  —  self  so 
utterly  forgotten,  she  could  spare  you  to  others.  To 
feebler  and  poorer  natures  it  is  such  an  agony  to  give  up 
the  exclusive  hold  on  the  heart  —  if  not  the  hand.  But 
her  deep  sense  of  the  oneness  that  was  indissoluble  en- 
abled her  to  do  this  so  sublimely,  that  I  think  all  who  ever 
heard  those  words  of  hers  must  by  the  glow  of  admiration 
they  cause  be  quickened  into  some  wish  of  following  afar 
off. 

I  do  not  wonder  that  you  have  had  a  period  of  renewed 
suffering.  I  think  the  absolute  Love  exacts,  at  one  time 
or  other,  suffering  —  only  less  than  itself,  but  incommuni- 


SUNSET  LIGHTS.  603 

cable  in  intensity.  I  do  not  believe  that  while  we  remain 
here  we  ever  cease  to  be  liable  to  moods  of  such  desola- 
tion as  are  only  conceivable  to  those  who  have  had  perfect 
fulfilment  of  all  their  being's  wants.  But  the  woman  has 
not,  as  you  truly  say,  the  outward  excitements.  Be  sure 
your  darling  has  been  saved  from  very  terrible  pain ; 
Perhaps  that  helps  best  of  all  —  that  bearing  instead. 
My  husband  once  said  to  me  :  "  What  should  I  do  with- 
out you  ?  I  could  not  live,  cut  in  half."  Well  —  I  have 
borne  it  in  his  place.  One  or  other  must.  If  there  be  an 
ordering  Love  working  through  and  in  all,  it  must  work 
in  individual  cases,  and  I  trust  that  these  sunderiugs  of 
soul  and  spirit  are  merciful  in  their  selection.  But  though 
I  admit,  thankfully,  even  joyfully,  that  we  do  rise  again 
some  third  day  (of  varying  length)  —  I  am  not  sure  that 
looking  back  on  my  own  case,  or  the  case  of  other  mourn- 
ers, I  always  desire  the  "  recovery  swifter."  [Some  such 
phrase  as  this  her  correspondent  had  used,  in  wishing  that 
in  Tennyson's  "  In  Memoriam  "  the  clouds  of  grief  gave 
way  sooner.]  After  all,  sorrow  is  a  form  of  love,  and  in 
a  world  where  those  out  of  sight  are  so  quickly  out  of 
mind,  one  blesses  those  who  prove  that  they  have  the 
power  of  sorrowing.  In  1876,  when  I  had  been  alone 
only  four  years,  that  sweet  woman  Mrs. ,  after  leav- 
ing me  wrote  me  a  sweet,  sweet  letter,  but  it  only  pained. 
She  wanted  me  to  do  —  indeed  I  scarce  know  what  —  but 
she  wanted  "  the  recovery  swifter."  Taught  by  that  pang 
that  came  from  a  well-meant  attempt  to  quicken  the  re- 
turn to  life  (always  painful,  even  after  the  body's  swoon), 
I  think  I  should  not  fear  for  any  one  what  has  been  called 
"  selfishness  of  grief."  If  they  have  loved  a  noble  soul 
(and  only  such  are  loved  in  your  and  my  sense  of  the 
word),  that  influence  will  surely  raise  them  into  sympathy 
in  time.  It  will  be  sooner  in  some  cases  than  others,  but 
it  will  be  —  for  love  is  life,  and  bereaved  ones  have  no 
personal  life  any  more  —  nothing  to  wish  for  themselves 


604  LUCY  SMITH. 

—  they  cannot  choose  but  turn  to  the  lives  of  others.  It 
is  one  of  the  most  benignant  laws  of  this  world  of  ours. 
But  the  sorrow  should  have  its  perfect  work.  And  I  can- 
not grudge  the  darkened  years  in  Tennyson's  or  any 
other's  life.  Nor  do  you  —  only  you  are  stronger  and 
hold  forth  the  noble  rule,  while  I  plead  for  the  pathetic 
exception,  which  has  its  teaching  too.  But  to  show  how 
much  in  unison  with  yours  my  husband's  guidance  is,  I 
enclose  lines  that  welled  out  of  my  early  days  of  anguish, 
as  the  date  shows.  ["  My  sorrow  is  my  throne."] 

You  and  I  shall  never  meet  on  earth,  and  hence  we  can 
be  more  open  to  each  other  than  it  is  often  possible  to  be, 
face  to  face.  If  there  ever  comes  to  you  an  impulse  to 
tell  me  more  of  that  sweetest  one,  and  the  inexhaustible 
treasures  of  such  years  —  both  the  waiting  and  the  pos- 
sessing —  do  not  check  the  impulse  !  I  shall  understand, 
for  I  loved  —  and  love. 

It  thrills  me  to  hear  you  say  that  you  feel  my  husband 
live  in  those  poor  pages.  When  you  wrote,  I  do  not  think 
you  had  read  of  the  parting.  Perhaps  you  will  say  I 
dwelt  on  that  too  long.  I  could  not  abridge  or  alter. 
And  life  and  death  were  one  —  the  long  twilight  of  the 
sweet  day  had  such  exquisite  lights  and  shades — the 
playfulness  to  the  last ! 

...  If  we  have  not  a  thunder  storm  this  afternoon,  I 
shall  walk  with  the  book  you  sent  me  to  the  cottage  of '  a 
blind  man,  and  try  to  read  out  the  last  chapter,  and  one 
that  addresses  the  young  —  the  cottage  is  full  of  children. 
I  say  try,  because  my  experience  of  the  uneducated 
classes  is  that  the  real  pleasure  they  derive  is  in  talking 
themselves.  I  often  wonder  how  people  get  the  Bible, 
or  anything  else,  read !  Fortunately  I  don't  esteem  it  so 
vital  a  matter  as  most  of  those  who  go  to  see  —  I  don't 
like  to  say  "  the  poor,"  't  is  so  vague  a  term,  but  you  know 
what  I  mean.  But  I  should  enjoy  reading  this  book,  if 
my  blind  man  permits.  I  am  here  for  the  summer  —  not 


SUNSET  LIGHTS.  605 

alone,  for  the  niece  whom  we  loved  (the  little  girl  who 
played  her  scales  at  Keswick  —  I  speak  you  see  as  though 
you  knew  all  about  us  !),  and  who  has  been  from  childhood 
my  familiar  friend,  is  with  me.  Her  equally  dear  hus- 
band is  watching  beside  the  sick  —  I  fear  the  dying  bed 
—  of  one  my  husband  never  spoke  of  save  as  "  dear  Con- 
stable" -one  of  those  men  who  leave  numbers  poorer, 
chillier,  less  protected. 

How  much  I  could  say  —  but  you  are  too  much  occu- 
pied for  such  careless  talk.  That  oneness  of  humanity  — 
how  it  fills  my  mind  too  —  and  henceforth  I  shall  find  I 
hope  more  practical  lessons  in  the  great  truth.  I  have 
known  Emerson  from  my  quite  young  days.  The  "  Thren- 
ody "  has  been  often  read.  But  we  cling  to  the  concep- 
tion of  personality,  though  even  now  and  here  it  is  hard 
to  define  —  inconceivable  hereafter,  except  as  expanded 
beyond  the  limits  of  present  thought.  Still,  I  cannot  sur- 
render it  yet,  as  Emerson  does. 

[On  the  back  of  the  verses.]  One  o'clock  in  the  night. 
I  have  been  looking  at  the  stars.  An  owl  is  hooting  in 
its  pleasant  fashion,  as  owls  hooted  around  Newton  Place. 
You  will  not  I  hope  suppose  I  send  you  these  lines  out  of 
any  mistaken  idea  that  they  are  worth  it,  except  as  illus- 
trating the  influence  the  thought  of  my  husband  has  over 
me.  But  now  I  shall  appropriate  those  comforting  words, 
and  more  consciously  seek  to  render  little  services  "  to 
him."  It  is  very  dear  to  my  heart  to  feel  that  you  now 
know  him  a  little.  Yet  his  books  reveal  him  more  than  a 
little.  I  never  knew  a  man  more  of  a  piece.  And  this 
from  early,  earliest  days.  At  the  age  of  twenty  he  wrote 
some  papers  in  the  "  Athenaeum,"  in  which  I  find  the  key- 
note of  "  Thorndale,"  "  Gravenhurst,"  and  his  daily  life. 
He  would  say  this  was  an  egotistic  addition  of  mine.  I 
shall  indeed  welcome  your  promised  book.  I  did  read 
the  chapters  to  my  blind  man,  who  listened  eagerly. 


606  LUCY  SMITH. 

To  Mrs.  Cotton. 

PATTERDALE,  Spring  of  1881. 

.  .  .  Oh,  what  a  new  lesson  of  caution  Fronde  has 
taught  to  all  who  need !  To  give  pain  with  words  of  the 
dead  seems  to  me  the  unpardonable  sin,  for  they  are  pow- 
erless to  explain,  to  smile  away  the  impression.  I  feel  the 
exposure  of  Carlyle's  fractious  moods  most  pathetic,  and 
love  Mr.  Spedding  for  his  tender  perception  that  the 
greatly  gifted,  greatly  suffering  man  "  always  needed  the 
indulgence  we  all  of  us  need  in  a  violent  attack  of  tooth- 
ache." Professor  TyndalPs  letter  was  I  thought  very 
beautiful.  But  I  do  not  think  you  ever  cared  much  for 
Carlyle,  so  I  need  not  prose  on  about  him.  When  I  was 
twenty,  Mr.  Warburton  lent  me  his  "  Miscellaneous  Es- 
says," and  he  has  been  one  of  the  teachers  of  my  irregular 
and  indolent  mind  ever  since.  My  husband,  however, 
though  an  earnest  admirer  of  much,  was  never  a  worship- 
per of  the  whole  man,  and  the  other  evening  I  was  read- 
ing out  to  Mary  an  essay  of  his  on  the  Cromwell,  which  I 
think  a  triumph  of  wise,  all-round-seeing,  and  impartial 
criticism.  I  wish  you  had  read  it  to  us  —  for  that  is  I 
think  the  form  in  which  you  best  like  books,  and  I  have  a 
delightful  piece  of  work  going  on,  and  should  much  enjoy 
listening.  My  piece  of  work  is  just  this :  a  piece  of  blue 
satin  cretonne  —  price,  one  shilling  three  years  ago.  It 
had  got  dirty,  and  when  Mary  washed  it  for  me,  out  came 
all  the  blue  in  deep  chocolate  brown  guise !  Great  are 
the  mysteries  of  dyeing,  but  this  was  amazing.  However, 
a  cream-colored  back-ground  remained,  with  the  pattern 
distinct,  and  over  this  I  am  working  in  filoselle,  with  I 
think  a  most  antique  and  a3sthetic  result.  I  expect  some 
one  to  say  of  my  banner  screen,  "  Where  did  you  get  that 
old  bit  of  embroidery?"  .  .  .  Oh,  my  Mary,  how  exquis- 
ite my  walk  last  evening  to  Glen  Coyne !  I  had  been 
there  on  Monday,  having  heard  from  Mr.  Pattison  of  a 


SUNSET  LIGHTS.  607 

dread  case  of  suffering ;  and  the  change  the  two  days  had 
made  was  magical.  The  birches  are  all  out,  but  the 
leaves  so  small  and  tremulous;  the  beech  branches  are 
rich  brown  with  bursting  buds ;  the  hills  were  deep  blue, 
the  lake  glass.  I  never  felt  the  beauty  more,  and  —  as  he 
once  wrote  to  and  of  me  —  he  "  was  with  me  every  step 
of  the  way."  "  Love  never  dieth  "  —  we  learn  this  as  a 
promise ;  we  get,  after  such  suffering  as  involves  as  it 
were  a  new  birth  and  other  faculties,  to  know  it  as  ex- 
perience. I  have  had  another  and  longer  letter  from  Mr. 

.     Since  then  he  has  sent  me  an  excellent  little  book. 

But  on  these  points  you  and  I,  my  darling,  have  at  least 
a  difference  of  expression.  With  this  stranger,  whom  I 
shall  never  see,  whom  I  do  not  even  wish  to  see,  I  feel  in 
as  complete  unison  as  is  possible  in  harmony.  How  dull 
a  world  it  would  be  but  for  our  differences,  and  how  un- 
wise even  to  wish  the  rich  variety  lessened.  But  the  thrill 
of  agreement  when  it  does  come  is  sweet  as  the  closing 
chord  of  some  tumultuous  overture. 

To  Mrs.  A.  Constable. 

PATTERDALE,  June  8,  1881. 
...  I  must  just  tell  you  of  my  call  upon  the  good 

N 's.     She  was  the  only  one  at  home,  and  her  simple 

heart  was  opened  about  her  happiness  and  her  character. 
I  was  telling  her  I  had  had  my  husband's  nephew  with 
me,  and  how  fond  I  was  of  him.  "  Well,  I  'm  that  way. 
When  Robert's  brother  comes  home,  I  do  not  know  how  to 
do  enough  for  him,  I  do  not  really.  Robert  has  an  honest 
heart,  and  I  've  an  honest  heart,  d'  you  see  —  I'm  not  bad, 
but  I  'm  sometimes  not  so  easy  to  do  with  —  I  'm  fidgy  — 
that 's  a  failing,  you  know."  I  said  I  was  sure  her  husband 
was  good-tempered.  "  And  so  he  is,  and  we  settled  it  be- 
fore we  married  that  we  were  never  to  be  cross  at  once  — 
that  would  never  do."  Many  inquiries  for  you  and  Archie. 
It  was  a  relief  to  the  kind  soul  to  know  I  had  been  on 


608  LUCY  SMITH. 

Place  Fell  on  Sunday.  She  had  heard  my  voice,  and  yet 
could  not  see  me.  She  had  not  liked  to  mention  it,  as 
"  people  did  say  hearing  people's  voices  when  they  were 
not  within  hearing  was  not  a  good  sign  !  "  You  see  she 
is  still  in  that  condition  where  there  is  no  recognition  of 
law  —  laws  of  acoustics  or  any  other,  therefore  no  such 
idea  as  infraction  of  law.  What  is  called  a  miracle 
would  not  perplex  her,  would  hardly  require  so  much  tes- 
timony as  an  every-day  incident.  It  would  interest  more, 
and  be  more  readily  received.  However  she  was  really 
glad  that  it  was  my  own  actual  and  every-day  voice. 

And   you  should  have  seen   D run  to  shake  hands 

with  me.  Such  a  greeting  I  do  not  often  get.  I  am  sure 
D believes  me  an  affectionate  friend.  And  the  rap- 
ture of  M the  precocious  at  having  his  young  uncle 

back,  and  the  complacency  of  the  father !  Altogether,  I 
went  out  feeling  arid,  went  with  an  effort  because  disin- 
clined, and  returned  feeling  "  kindly  with  my  kind." 

PATTEBDALE,  June  10,  1881. 

[She  writes  of  a  visit  from  Mrs.  Ruck,  whose  daughter 
had  married  Mr.  Frank  Darwin,  a  son  of  Charles  Darwin, 
and  died  at  the  birth  of  a  child,  Bernard,  who  was  now  at 
Patterdale  with  the  Darwin  grandparents.] 

I  found  it  a  little  difficult  to  keep  my  attention  close  to 

's  narrative  of  the  unreasonableness  of  the  servants, 

etc.,  but  she  spared  me  no  detail,  and  only  left  when  the 
wheels  were  heard.  And  then  there  was  that  grand, 
beaming  noble  face,  and  the  clasp  of  those  dear  arms ! 
As  usual,  her  journey  had  been  full  of  interest.  She  had 
stopped  for  tea  at  Troutbeck,  and  driven  on  with  a  cham- 
pion wrestler,  Hutton  Warwick  by  name,  who  told  her  of 
all  his  prizes  and  conflicts,  and  for  a  wonder  asked  her 
many  questions  about  the  family.  She  was  full  of  his 
pleasant  ways,  and  indeed  I  never  saw  a  more  good-na- 
tured face  —  the  good  humour  of  strength.  Just  as  1  was 


SUNSET  LIGHTS.  609 

unpacking  her  hamper,  in  came  Mr.  Horace  D ,  who 

is  quite  a  son  to  her  —  a  charming  young  man,  with  that 
voice  of  finished  culture,  that  ease  and  naturalness,  -which 
come  of  much  best  society.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  trust,  I  tremblingly 
think,  I  am  getting  less  "  exclusive,"  want  less  for  myself. 
If  life  does  not  teach  this,  it  has  taught  nothing  worth, 
nothing  immortal.  ...  I  have  been  all  the  morning  talk- 
ing and  rearranging  flowers.  Mr.  Darwin  has  just  been 
here.  He  is  delightful,  and  I  have  begged  him  to  give 
Crosthwaite  an  order  for  mats.  I  do  exceedingly  admire 
Mr.  Darwin,  and  could  ask  nothing  pleasanter  than  to 
hear  him  talk.  I  do  not  much  wonder  at  the  worship  of 
intellect,  for  it  means  generally  goodness.  Yesterday, 
Bernard  and  Miss  Darwin  lunched  here,  and  M.  A.  had 
gone  off  for  him  to-day,  but  instead  of  bringing  him  back 
appeared  with  the  illustrious  grandfather.  How  at  home 
and  easy  one  is  with  men  and  women  who  are  so  im- 
mensely above  one.  One  has  the  ease  of  the  lower  ani- 
mals. 

The  summer's  letters  are  full  of  tender  allusions  to  the 
death,  in  the  month  of  May,  of  Thomas  Constable,  loved 
and  honored  through  so  many  years. 

PATTERDALE,  Aug.  18,  1881. 

Oh,  my  Archie,  thatjfozs^,  aad  then  the  terrible  reality  ! 
I  feel  it  all ;  and  feel  how  you  must  sometimes  need  time 
to  stand  still,  and  all  else  to  keep  silence,  so  that  for  a 
while  you  might  have  the  one  thought,  unbroken  by  any 
other.  Even  I  have  that  wish.  I  want  just  to  talk  and 
think  of  the  beloved  friend  with  some  of  you,  were  it  but 
for  an  hour  —  to  think  of  nothing  else.  His  dear  face 
looks  on  me  daily  by  the  side  of  my  One.  Your  dear 
mother,  how  often  I  think  of  her,  and  how  sorry  I  am  to 
be  so  out  of  reach  that  I  cannot  see  letters  and  the  like. 
I  have  never  seen  those  of  the  young  and  far-away  sons, 


610  LUCY  SMITH. 

on  whom  the  great  and  peculiar  bereavement  —  for  he 
was  the  very  personification  of  all-embracing  and  all-for- 
giving tenderness  of  love  —  must  have  fallen  so  sud- 
denly. .  .  . 

And  now  I  have  a  pleasant  experience  to  share  with 
you.  Last  afternoon  was  fine,  so  we  two  (I  am  jealous 
of  the  word  "  we  "  —  it  is  always  "  we  two  "  now)  were 
off  early,  and  walked  to  Dovedale.  When  I  got  as  far  as 
the  farmhouse,  I  felt  I  was  actually  sinking  for  a  cup  of 
tea,  and  went  in  to  solicit  one,  meaning  to  remunerate  of 
course.  A  girl  first  appeared  ;  then  the  mother,  then  the 
farmer  himself,  to  whom  T  had  only  spoken  once,  three 
years  ago,  as  he  stood  looking  (Hessie  and  I  thought) 
quite  nobly  handsome,  hay-making  with  his  men.  The 
fervor  of  his  handshake,  and  his  familiarity  with  my  name, 
amazed  me.  He  wondered  why  I  had  not  been  to  see 
them ;  they  "  feared  I  was  affronted  "  —  and  I  did  not 
know  they  were  aware  of  my  existence  !  The  wife  told 
me  I  was  much  changed,  and  she  would  not  have  known 
me ;  and  we  were  led  in  to  such  a  beautiful  parlor,  large, 
low,  with  arched  windows  (it  is  a  very  old  house,  with 
massive  walls,  and  a  "  hide-hole,"  which  "  his  Lordship  " 
who  has  recently  been  over  means  to  have  opened  out) 
and  lovely  views.  There  a  first-rate  tea  was  brought  us, 
and  I  revived,  and  we  "  cracked,"  and  the  farmer  was  de- 
lightful. If  some  underrate  us,  as  dear  Mrs.  Jones  al- 
ways said,  some  overrate,  and  we  always  get  more  than 
our  due !  Really  I  was  quite  mortified  that  Mrs.  Sowton 
could  not  hear  the  good  man's  cordiality !  He  said  he 
"  did  believe  I  was  the  great  support  of  Patterdale " 
(why  ?  He  had  never  even  heard  of  the  Library),  and 
that  "  the  people  wanted  me  to  stay  the  winter  "  (why 
again  ?).  Something  led  me  to  say  I  was  short-sighted  : 
"  Well,  now,  I  would  never  have  believed  that.  I  was 
just  admiring  your  eyes  —  they  are  good  ones  "  (the  room 
was  dark!).  Then  the  wife  said  I  "looked  so  much 


SUNSET  LIGHTS.  611 

younger-like  —  what  had  I  done  ?  —  perhaps  't  was  the 
dress."  And  I  had  the  most  cordial  invitation  to  spend  a 
fortnight  with  them,  and  was  told,  when  I  said  how  fond 
I  was  of  Patterdale,  "  fatter  dale  is  very  fond  of  you  ;  " 
and  in  short,  never  was  any  obscure  creature  more  made 
of  by  almost  strangers.  I  am  planning  such  pleasant 
Christmas  votives  —  for  it  was  impossible  to  acknowledge 
the  good  tea,  except  by  cordial  gratitude.  In  the  strength 
of  it  we  two  jogged  off  cheerily.  The  weather  darkened, 
a  flash  of  sunshine  just  brought  out  Dove  Crag  and  the 
beauty  of  the  perfect  valley  —  then  stillness  and  gloom, 
and  mists  began  to  wind  stealthily  in  and  out  of  the  peaks, 
and  still  it  was  impossible  not  to  go  on.  Perhaps  Mary 
will  send  these  sheets  to  Edith,  for  I  can't  write  it  all 
again,  and  she  has  been  in  Dovedale  with  the  dear  C., 
and  I  want  her  to  know  I  went  the  other  side  of  the  val- 
ley, and  that  it  is  quite  exquisite.  On  and  on  we  went 
till  we  got  to  a  narrow  dingle  down  which  a  little  water- 
fall comes,  and  oh,  the  loveliness  of  the  ground !  The 
carpet,  and  the  strawberries  with  their  crimson  fruit  and 
scarlet  leaves.  Brothers'  Water  lay  far  behind  us,  and  I 
should  have  scrambled  further  still  but  that  there  came 
rain.  At  first  we  thought  it  might  be  a  shower,  and 
sheltered  under  a  rowan,  but  no  —  blackness  overhead 
and  pelting  rain.  Nothing  for  it  but  returning.  I  was 

wet  to  the  skin,  but  dear  Mrs.  S had  a  woollen  shawl. 

Oh,  the  cold  of  my  arms  and  shoulders,  and  the  fear  of 
ruining  my  sateen !  I  was  full  of  pain  by  the  time  we 
got  back  (at  half  past  seven),  but  am  none  the  worse,  and 
so  thankful  for  the  kindness  of  people ! 

PATTEKDALE,  Oct.  16,  1881. 

My  darling,  I  must  write  you,  while  your  (and  my) 
beloved  Archie  is  sitting  in  this  room.  His  presence  as 
you  know  is  always  pleasant,  gives  an  increased  sense  of 
peace,  well-being,  security.  I  have  combed  Birnam  into 


612  LUCY  SMITH. 

great  beauty,  and  tugged  at  some  incipient  tags  in  a  man- 
ner he  would  never  have  allowed  if  he  had  not  been  very 
sleepy  indeed.  This  morning  was  extraordinarily  beauti- 
ful, not  a  cloud  in  the  tender  blue,  not  one  breath  of  air, 
a  slight  white. frost  making  everything  crisp.  Nature 
seemed  to  have  waked  in  an  ecstasy  after  the  tremendous 
storm  and  conflict  undergone.  Archie  and  I  were  off  at 
ten,  Birnam  full  of  conceit  leading  the  way,  and  frightful 
little  Patch  running  behind  him.  She  dearly  likes  a 
walk,  and  one  never  has  to  give  her  a  thought,  which  in- 
deed she  would  hardly  be  worth.  The  walk  was  perfect, 
brilliant  sunshine,  brilliant  tints,  but  of  course  the  storm 
has  bared  many  trees.  We  went  to  the  end  of  the 
lovely  valley  [Dovedale],  and  Archie  scrambled  a  little 
up  the  watercourse  —  for  I  will  not  call  it  a  waterfall, 
only  a  succession  of  pretty  little  leaps.  Patch  would  not 
go  on  with  him,  and  Birnam  had  scrambled  into  my  lap 
and  kept  me  warm  as  I  sat  among  the  ferns.  It  was  per- 
fectly still,  and  Archie  and  I  had  another  sit  and  a  pipe 
in  a  blaze  of  sunshine  that  made  my  fur  cloak  feel  too 
much  of  a  wrap.  Birnam  had  three  charming  dips  in 
Brothers'  Water,  and  quickly  dried.  A  more  lovely 
walk  on  a  lovelier  day  could  hardly  have  been  taken. 
You  know  how  I  like  Archie's  dear  society,  and  how  glad 
I  always  am  to  feel  his  supporting  arm  and  the  "  perpet- 
ual comfort  of  his  face." 

Monday,  half  past  five :  Dear  Archie  is  just  off  — 
warm  and  comfortable,  and  having  made  a  tidy  breakfast. 
Birnam  has  been  very  tenderly  yet  reasonably  unhappy, 
and  is  now  bearing  up  the  better  because  of  a  mutton  bone 
that  I  have  indulged  him  with  before  the  fire.  His  dear 
wistful  eyes  when  it  dawned  on  him  that  "  dear  Master  " 
was  to  £0  made  me  think  of  that  line  of  DobelFs  about 

O 

the  forsaken  dog  who  "  seeks  what  he  knows  to  be,  yet 
knows  not  where."  Well,  barriers  do  not  annihilate  the 


SUNSET  LIGHTS.  613 

loved  one,  only  divide  —  and  very  soon  for  the  left  the 
barrier  will  fall.  How  the  cock  crew  at  half  past  three, 
at  four,  and  now  again !  It  hardly  seems  worth  while  to 
go  back  to  bed.  How  much  good  I  wish  you  for  to-mor- 
row and  all  to-morrows,  I  need  not  say  —  happy  years 
in  the  home,  with  the  precious  husband's  love  —  the  only 
equal,  only  perfect  love,  that  has  the  same  standpoint  in 
time,  the  same  interest,  the  entire  confidence,  to  build  up 
and  secure  the  other  sacredness  and  sweetness  of  what 
alone  is  union.  Bless  you,  and  may  the  birthdays  be  ever 
brightening  from  within,  long  after  I  have  passed  away. 

"  Way  will  open,"  dear,  but  it  "  runs  up  hill  all  the 
way  "  for  the  majority. 

You  will  see,  dear  one,  things  will  brighten.  We  must 
trus'en,  as  Dolly  says.  Have  you  anything  pleasant  to 
read?  Aimless  talking  is  deadly.  If  evils  are  remedi- 
able —  action  !  If  not  —  silence  ! 

[Brighton.]  I  never  thought  this  dear  C so  de- 
lightful every  way.  She  seems  to  me  perfect  in  every 

relation,  and  there  is  such  an  increasing  repose.     G 

was  very  interesting  after  dinner  yesterday,  as  all  human 
beings  are  who  share  their  deeper  feelings  —  their  strain- 
ing towards  the  light.  Good  man  of  business  though  he 
be,  he  evidently  thinks  much  of  the  great  encompassing 
mystery  —  the  home  of  our  being.  I  more  and  more  ad- 
mire C .  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  when  ani- 
mated and  speaking  from  her  soul  she  is  occasionally 
beautiful  —  has  moments  of  positive  inspiration  which 
show  that  for  these  last  years  she  has  been  growing. 
And  she  has  a  more  mellow  and  attuned  grace,  with  no 
loss  of  her  native  fervour  either,  so  that  really  I  do  not 
wonder  at  any  enthusiasm  she  excites  in  Mrs.  Taylor,  or 
any  one  else. 


614  LUCY  SMITH. 

Mildred  is  as  I  have  told  you  an  ineffably  sweet  child. 
She  adds  another  to  my  list  of  enchanting  children  (not 
merely  pretty  or  promising  ones),  which  even  with  this  ad- 
dition only  runs  up  to  three. 

You  see  that  all  is  going  right  with  .  It  is  so  true 

of  a  character  like  hers  —  if  it  fall  it  is  sure  to  rise 
again,  "  the  Lord  holding  the  right  hand."  A  beautiful 
metaphor,  and  a  sermon  in  itself.  The  divine  habit  of 
right  will  prevail  over  the  passing  mood,  the  law  of  the 
controlled  and  aspiring  nature  will  conquer  the  accidental. 
Everything  so  far  as  moral  truth  goes  may  be  expressed 
in  those  consecrated  words. 

The  beloved  Mr.  Constable's  spirit  will  be  with  you 
all  — the  spirit  of  gracious  and  expressed  affection.  Ah, 
let  no  one  shrink  from  expressing  it.  The  heart  has 
strange  abysses  of  gloom,  and  often  yearns  for  just  one 
word  of  love  to  help.  And  it  is  just  when  the  manner 
may  be  drier  and  less  genial  than  usual  that  the  need  may 
be  greatest ! 

To  Mrs.  Henry  Hemans. 

The  best  that  can  happen  is  a  deepened  sense  of  the  un- 
seen, a  firmer  trust.  Life's  terrible  aspects  sometimes 
shake  that  faith,  and  all  seems  chaotic  and  dark.  But 
when  faith  revives  and  one  seems  to  get  glimpses  behind 
the  vail,  seasons  are  ours  of  great  peace,  and  reliance  on 
infinite  love,  from  whence  we  derive  our  own.  These, 
whether  alone  or  not,  are  the  best  hours.  The  dearest 
friends  cannot  always  help  us  to  these.  They  rise  and 
set  by  laws  we  cannot  certainly  trace. 

To  Mr.  Archibald  Constable. 

(Undated.)  Dear  Vi  and  I  walked  in  the  gloaming, 
and  I  met  "  Peggy,"  who  allowed  her  lovely  gray  cheeks 
to  be  caressed  to  one's  heart's  content.  What  a  pleasant 


SUNSET  LIGHTS.  615 

idea  that  of  understanding  the  language  of  animals !  I 
do  prefer  them  to  an  evolved  (?)  type,  that  is  to  say  to 
the  average  man  and  woman.  If  Allan  were  here  I 
should  like  to  show  him  what  seems  to  me  a  fallacy  in  the 
" Spectator's "  review  of  "Supernatural  Religion."  Mr. 

H does  seem  to  me  strangely  confused.     I  wonder 

people  don't  come  to  see  that,  given  a  God,  none  of  his 
dealings  can  be  otherwise  than  divine,  and  that  this  idea 
of  Super-His-order,  by  which  one  might  define  supernat- 
ural, is  mere  confusion.  We  may  see  that  relatively  to 
our  perceptions  or  our  condition  certain  laws  are  higher, 
more  important,  than  others,  but  they  must  all  alike  be 
according  to  his  will,  ordered  and  sure  in  the  nature  of 
things,  not  afterthoughts  or  makeshifts. 

To  Mrs.  Cotton. 

PATTEBDALE,  Summer  of  1881. 

My  much  loved  Mary,  how  I  do  want  to  talk  to  you ! 
First  and  foremost  to  say  how  I  rejoice  in  dear  General 
Cotton's  restored  health  and  return  to  his  "  own  heart's 
home."  I  thought  of  you  indeed  on  Wednesday  afternoon, 
and  earnestly  wished  your  happiness  a  long  continuance. 
And  I  enter  deeply  into  your  longing  for  a  country  home, 
where  you  may  be  more  completely  together  than  your 
unselfishness  now  allows  you  to  be.  Only  it  must  be  in 
some  remote  neighbourhood,  or  social  claims  will  crowd 
around  you,  and  probably  be  less  interesting  than  those 
that  now  render  your  life  so  over-full.  I  do  not  at  all 
like  to  think  of  your  sitting  up  so  late,  even  to  write  to 
me,  welcome  indeed  as  your  letter  was,  and  sweet  as  I 
thought  it  of  you  to  send  me  all  these  details  of  the  be- 
loved Amy.  ...  I  am  glad poured  out  his  heart  to 

you.  But,  though  I  do  not  try  to  forecast '  what  years 
may  bring,  I  cannot  desire  a  new  love  so  much  as  that  the 
old  may  suffice  —  for  guidance,  stimulus,  and  that  min- 
gled rapture  and  anguish  which  if  not  happiness  in  the 
usual  sense  of  the  word  is  energy  and  intense  life  —  "  bind- 


616  LUCY  SMITH. 

ing  one,"  as  my  American  friend  says,  "  to  the  best  work." 
I  have  had  two  other  letters  from  him,  most  precious  to 
my  heart.  It  is  strange  how  for  perfect  rapport  one  may 
turn  to  one  unseen.  Such  a  relation  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing renders  one  more  able  to  understand,  or  to  conceive 
of,  an  enlarged  independence  of  these  senses  of  ours.  It 
is  a  kind  of  "  seeing  the  invisible."  In  this  way  we  make 
up  a  totality  of  sympathy  and  affection.  Some  dear  old 
ties  suffice  in  themselves,  and  one  does  not  demand  any 
other  union  than  the  long  years  and  well-tried  affections 
and  indefinable  fondness  for  the  personal  presence  have 
brought  about.  With  others  there  is  the  thrill  of  intel- 
lectual agreement.  I  know  no  one  to  whom  it  would  be 
so  easy  to  "  pour  out  my  full  heart "  as  to  this  young  man 
whom  I  shall  never  meet,  nor  even  wish  to  meet.  But  I 
don't  write  to  him  — 'his  last  letter  remains  unanswered, 
while  the  pen  wobbles  almost  daily  to  my  Mary  —  alas, 
she  is  so  often  breathless  and  ailing.  .  .  .  'T  is  sweet  of 
you  to  give  my  hand  a  thought.  'T  is  no  longer  the 
thumb,  but  some  weakness  in  the  palm  of  the  hand. 
However  it  is  better  to-day,  only  fatal  to  letter-writing, 
because  one  wants  to  squeeze  all  one  has  to  say  into  a  few 
words.  I  'm  so  glad  you  liked  the  curtain  —  but  I  only 
learned  from  M.  A.  R.,  and  did  n't  do  the  work  half  as 
well  as  she.  I  seem  to  myself  one  of  the  incapable,  but 
as  my  dear  one  used  to  say,  flinging  his  arms  round  my 
neck,  "  You  and  I  have  no  talent  —  only  a  little  bit  of 
mind !  "  Well,  mine  was  a  little  bit,  but  I  thankfully  be- 
lieve of  the  same  cast,  and  therefore  complete  union  was 
possible.  And  now  I  am  half  a  pair  of  scissors  —  the 
loneliest  and  incapablest  of  work.  Now  a  capable  per- 
son is  this  dear  and  delightful  Mima.  To  see  her  on 
her  arrival  Saturday,  grubbing  in  the  bit  of  garden,  plant- 
ing and  transplanting,  pegging  down  a  petunia  with  hair- 
pins, and  washing  a  rose  with  a  shaving  brush !  She  is 
the  very  good  fairy  of  order  and  efficiency,  and  the  pleas- 
aiitest  and  most  cheering  of  companions. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

REUNITED. 

"  SHE  and  I,"  writes  Mrs.  Constable,  "  spent  the  greater 
part  of  September,  1881,  together  in  London.  She  was 
fairly  well  and  very  energetic,  and  full  of  interest  in  all  the 
details  of  the  furniture  of  our  new  house  which  she  helped 
me  to  choose ;  going  in  to  every  particular  with  her  own 
peculiar  lively  interest,  which  she  brought  to  bear  upon  the 
choosing  of  the  pattern  of  a  cretonne  with  the  same  sweet 
intensity  as  if  it  had  been  a  thing  of  far  more  moment. 
She  and  I  went  to  see  several  of  her  dear  friends,  and  had 
very  pleasant  days  together.  Anything  seen  or  done  with 
her  had  a  charm  it  can  never  have  again.  How  she  en- 
joyed things  !  The  pretty  things  in  the  shops,  the  lights 
reflected  in  the  river  as  we  crossed  Westminster  Bridge  at 
night,  the  good  looks  of  some  of  the  young  faces  we  saw  in 
the  streets  or  in  the  train  —  everything  touched  her.  The 
Sundays  were  delightful,  and  she  enjoyed  the  variety  and 
the  music  —  delighted  in  the  music  at  the  Carmelites,  the 
service  at  the  Foundling  Hospital,  Canon  Duckworth's 
sermon  in  the  Abbey  after  the  president's  death,  and  our 
last  service  together  at  St.  George's,  Southwark,  where 
we  heard  Rossini's  "  Stabat  Mater  "  gloriously  given.  It 
was  music  she  specially  delighted  in,  and  those  exquisite 
airs  thrilled  her  with  delight.  But  she  said  some  weeks 
afterwards  to  her  friend  Mrs.  Ruck  :  '  It  is  curious  how  I 
now  never  wish  a  pleasure  repeated.  Much  as  I  enjoyed 
my  visit  to  Mr.  Herkomer,  and  all  the  interesting  places  we 
went  to,  I  have  no  wish  to  see  them  again.  I  liked  Mary 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  that  pleasant  time,  and  enjoyed  it 


618  LUCY   SMITH. 

with  her.'  We  came  back  together  to  Chester,  where  she 
spent  two  days  with  her  dear  Hessie  Howard,  going  over 
one  day  to  Rhyl  to  spend  a  few  hours  with  my  dear  mother. 
Then  I  went  to  my  mother,  and  my  sister  went  back  to 
Patterdale  with  Aunt  Lucy,  and  was  with  her  for  over 
three  weeks.  On  the  thirty-first  of  October  Edith  came 
away,  and  as  she  left  the  station  she  leant  her  head  out  of 
the  window  for  a  last  look  at  the  dear  one,  who  was  stand- 
ing on  the  platform,  and  who  on  seeing  her  pointed  with 
her  hand  to  the  sky  above. 

"  She  returned  that  evening  to  Patterdale,  and  was 
alone  for  the  next  few  days  ;  a  very  rare  event  with  her, 
as  she  generally  had  some  loved  friend  with  her  —  and 
how  her  friends  valued  those  quiet  peaceful  times  with 
her  in  that  lovely  country !  Quiet  as  the  life  there  was, 
it  was  full  of  interests,  for  she  had  many  friends  among 
the  cottagers  —  sick  and  blind  people  who  claimed  her 
advice  and  had  great  faith  in  her  readiness  to  help  them. 
And  then  what  letters  came  to  her  ! 

"  At  this  time  she  was  busily  working  at  some  curtains 
she  intended  for  a  Christmas  gift  to  an  Edinburgh  friend. 
They  were  a  marvellous  piece  of  work,  and  had  been  an 
amusement  for  her  for  about  three  months.  In  the  bor- 
ders she  had  worked  different  flowers,  and  a  great  many 
of  Esop's  fables,  which  she  had  carried  out  with  wonderful 
spirit  and  expression.  In  one  of  her  letters  she  said  she 
had  been  working  the  fable  of  the  Wolf  and  the  Lamb,  and 
4  quite  made  her  heart  ache  over  the  pleading  expression 
of  the  lamb !  '  In  another  letter  at  this  time  she  says  to 
me,  '  I  sit  over  my  curtains  because  they  must  be  done, 
and  shall  probably  go  out  to  please  the  dear  fellow,'  - 
my  dog,  who  was  having  a  happy  time  with  her,  — 4  but  I 
should  like  to  be  in  bed.'  " 


REUNITED.  619 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Loomis. 

PATTERDALE,  Oct.  23,  1881. 

The  line  that  separates  the  normal  from  the  abnormal 
is  very  fine,  almost  indefinable,  and  men  of  the  most  spir- 
itual type,  men  who  have  inaugurated  or  stimulated  great 
religious  movements,  have  always  been  unlike  the  major- 
ity in  the  intensity  of  incommunicable  personal  feelings. 
This  sense  of  being  "  if  beside  ourselves,  beside  ourselves 
to  God,"  must  differentiate  one  human  being  from  the 
usual  run  in  a  manner  that  they  of  course  can  have  no 
conception  of.  ...  For  me  the  curtain  has  never  been 
withdrawn.  I  suppose  I  am  not  imaginative.  But  I  have 
loved,  I  do  love.  Time  does  not  change  one  feeling  con- 
nected with  the  one  out  of  sight,  who  called  out  in  me  a 
new  nature  and  filled  it.  This  morning  I  was  reading  one 
of  his  manuscript  books,  with  all  the  old  yearning  for  the 
perfect  companionship  —  the  voice,  the  smile,  my  incom- 
municable experience  of  fulness  of  joy !  It  will  be  ten 
years  in  March  since  I  have  been  alone. 

I  am  much  interested  in  the  effort  you  are  making  to 
rescue  young  girls,  and  can  well  believe  time  and  thought 
are  completely  filled  up,  and  that  mere  letter-writing  be- 
comes wearisome.  If  only  the  fresh  tide  of  young  lives 
could  be  prevented  from  flowing  in  to  fill  the  place  the 
rescued  ones  have  left  empty !  For  this  we  must  be  con- 
tent to  wait,  and  trust  to  heredity  and  progress.  Mean- 
while, what  a  joy  to  work  as  you  are  working  —  the  work 
of  the  present,  which  is  preparing  I  must  believe  a  better 
future.  I  wonder  if  the  industrial  hamlet  will  be  found 
practicable.  I  should  have  more  hope  from  detached 
homes,  where  there  is  the  public  opinion  of  a  varied  society 
to  live  up  to.  How  the  "  Power  that  worketh  in  us  "  is  lead- 
ing men  and  women  ever  more  and  more  to  grapple  with 
misery,  and  vice  which  is  the  worst  misery.  I  am  struck 
with  the  increase  of  philanthropic  effort  everywhere. 


620  LUCY  SMITH. 

Whatever  religious  views  are  held,  all  seem  at  work  in 
some  good  cause.  It  has  indeed  become  one  may  say  a 
fashion,  and  has  its  absurd  developments,  but  still  what 
progress  this  fact  marks.  I  have  been  away  from  Patter- 
dale  for  a  month,  in  London  and  elsewhere.  I  was  in  West- 
minster Abbey  when  a  tribute  of  loving  reverence  was 
paid  to  your  noble  president.  The  funeral  sermon  (how  I 
dislike  the  words!)  was  worthy  of  its  theme.  The  grand 
old  Abbey  was  filled  with  silent,  breathless  crowds,  who 
poured  slowly  forth,  to  the  sound  of  Handel's  and  Bee- 
thoven's wailing,  exulting  dead  marches.  How  intense  a 
feeling  of  love  and  grief  has  been  fusing  our  nationalities 
into  one !  I  shall  soon  be  moving  to  Edinburgh,  and  if 
during  the  winter  an  impulse  comes  to  tell  me  of  the  prog- 
ress of  your  undertaking,  the  old  address,  11  Thistle 
Street,  will  always  find  me.  You  ask  if  I  can  read  your 
writing.  Yes,  always,  and  I  think  you  will  admit  that  I 
have  written  legibly  this  time.  You  are  still,  are  you  not, 
in  the  charming  house  of  which  you  sent  me  the  photo- 
graph ?  It  was  a  detached  house,  and  you  talk  of  a  new 
name  to  your  street,  which  puzzles  me.  I  wonder  whether 
Mrs.  Loomis  keeps  up  her  music,  and  should  like  to  hear 
more  of  her  and  the  dear  daughters  than  I  ever  shall.  I 
head  my  letter  by  a  graceful  wood-flower  —  I  will  not 

say  weed. 

To  Mr. . 

PATTERDALE,  SUNDAY,  Nov.  6,  1881. 

How  welcome  your  letter  was,  dear  friend  —  strangely 
welcome  when  one  remembers  that  this  time  last  year  we 
did  not  know  of  the  existence  of  each  other.  I  began  to 
fear  you  had  not  got  my  letter,  sometimes  feared  I  had 
said  a  something  that  jarred — quite  unreasonably,  for 
you  had  sent  me  papers,  but  it  is  a  vice  of  my  nature  to 
distrust  myself  and  think  I  may  have  said  or  done  or 
written  something  that  chilled  or  pained.  This  is  not  hu- 
mility I  know,  but  I  suppose  a  sort  of  morbid  timidity.  I 


REUNITED.  621 

told  you,  I  think,  I  was  but  a  poor  weak  creature,  and 
therefore  adored  the  stronger,  finer  organizations,  in  which 
some  indwelling  grace  casts  out  fear.  I  am  now  alone, 
and  all  this  Sunday  has  been  spent  in  the  past,  arranging 
old  letters,  which  led  to  reading  them,  and  making  ar- 
rangements for  my  approaching  departure.  These  peri- 
odical flittings  are  rehearsals  for  the  greater  change  which 
cannot  be  very  distant  and  which  is  frequently  in  my  mind 
of  late.  The  declining  health  of  an  only  sister,  and 
the  valetudinarian  apprehensions  of  an  only  brother,  and 
certain  pains  of  my  own,  lead  me  to  think  we  shall  not 
any  of  us  live  to  be  really  old,  as  our  dear  parents  did.1 
I  am  sure  I  hardly  know  why  this  should  have  run  out  of 
my  pen  —  a  disagreeable,  scratching,  whining  steel  pen  — 
my  gold  pen,  unluckily  broken,  never  would  have  got  on 
such  dull  topics.  However,  one  result  of  the  arrange- 
ment of  old  letters  is  that  I  send  you  two  of  George  Eli- 
ot's, taken  somewhat  at  random,  but  showing  two  phases 
of  life.  Pray  do  not  show  them  to  any  one  (I  make  ex- 
ception in  favour  of  Mrs. ),  and  return  them  to  me.  I 

have  no  definite  clue  to  her  second  marriage.  But  she 
was  alone,  as  genius  must  necessarily  be.  In  a  later  note 
she  tells  me  that  "constant  female  society  would  be  intol- 
erable to  her ;  "  and  I  suppose  she  needed  to  be  loved, 
needed  it  imperiously,  for  those  who  saw  her  during  the 
last  few  months  of  her  life  spoke  of  her  as  very  happy. 
No  doubt  the  convictions  of  her  mind  had  much  to  do 
with  it.  To  some  of  us  the  other  self  is  living,  though 
under  conditions  we  do  not  seek  to  define  —  living  in 
some  sense  more  intensely  than  ever,  since  the  object  of 
an  ever  growing  love.  That  must  make  an  immeasura- 
ble difference  ;  but  also,  I  suppose,  loving  is  the  great  es- 
sential to  some  human  beings,  being  loved  to  others.  Mr. 
Cross  had  long  worshipped  her  genius,  and  when  she  was 
ill,  the  autumn  before  her  death,  she  wrote  of  "  having 
1  Within  six  months  the  three  had  passed  away. 


622  LUCY  SMITH. 

been  nursed  as  a  wife  nurses  her  husband."  ...  I  re- 
member only  how  great,  how  kind,  she  was.  Some  day  I 
will,  I  think,  write  out  my  recollections  of  the  hours  spent 
with  these  gifted  beings.  I  have  promised  my  Mary  to 
do  this,  and  if  you  like  you  shall  see  the  page  or  two. 
But  I  have  a  horror  of  exaggerating  the  amount  of  inter- 
course or  kindly  relation  between  one's  self  and  one's  in- 
tellectual superiors.  And  my  husband's  reticence  in  these 
matters  was  exceptional.  Oh,  those  words  of  Emerson  — 
they  are  the  best  description  of  him  I  know  :  "  The  soul 
that  ascend  eth  to  worship  the  great  God  is  plain  and  true ; 
has  no  rose  colors,  no  fine  friends,  no  chivalry,  no  adven- 
tures ;  does  not  want  admiration  ;  dwells  in  the  hour  that 
now  is,  in  the  earnest  experience  of  the  common  day." 
Deliberately  I  say  it,  were  I  restricted  to  six  lines,  they 
are  these  by  which  I  would  characterize  his  rare  and  ex- 
quisite personality.  Were  it  not  for  the  misleading  por- 
trait, I  would  send  you  the  whole  paper  by  Mr.  Strahan, 
there  are  such  faithful  touches  in  it.  The  first  impression, 
had  you  seen  him,  would  have  been  his  utter  unlikeness 
to  any  one  else.  Ten  days  ago  the  dear  mother  and 
daughter  who  worked  and  waited  upon  us  (at  Newton 
Place)  came  over  to  see  me.  The  latter  is  now  a  happy 
wife  and  mother.  I  went  out  for  a  few  moments  with  her 
into  the  starlight.  Looking  up  she  said,  "  Eh  !  Mr.  Smith 
was  fond  of  the  stars  —  how  he  did  go  from  one  room  to 
another  to  look  at  them."  "  You  will  never  forget  him, 
dear  Ruth  ?  "  "  No,  1  never  shall ;  he  was  quite  different 
from  everybody."  That  men  of  his  own  stamp  should 
have  appreciated  him  was  natural,  but  simple  country 
girls  in  country  lodgings,  to  whom  he  hardly  spoke  any 
but  the  simplest  words,  were  unerring  in  their  perception. 
Oh,  I  am  egotistical  this  evening  !  Curious  —  I  had  re- 
frained from  asking  for  your  photograph,  from  some  sense 
that  you  might  express  a  wish  to  see  mine.  I  have  only 
one,  which  has  lain  in  my  husband's  desk  so  many  years 


REUNITED.  623 

that  it  would  give  you  no  idea  of  what  I  am  now.  And  it 
was  a  wretched  little  affair,  done  by  an  amateur,  a  tyro  in 
the  art.  And  to  be  quite  candid,  I  like  better  that  you 
should  not  see  me  photographed,  and  I  never  mean  to  be 
again.  My  husband  used  to  say  sometimes,  "  If  I  could 
have  her  painted  just  as  she  is  now  —  but  it  must  be  by  a 
first-rate  artist."  I  should  not  like  you  to  think  that  the 
face  he  liked  was  always  as  plain  as  in  a  photograph  you 
would  see  it  to  be.  And  now  I  have  been  ten  years  alone, 
without  the  transfiguration  of  an  immense  joy.  But  your 
likeness  it  would  interest  me  to  see.  .  .  .  When  in  London 
with  Mary,  she  and  I  went  to  hear  the  "  Stabat  Mater  " 
at  St.  George's  Cathedral,  Southwark,  and  walking  back 
over  the  bridge  we  heard  the  Abbey  chimes.  It  moves 
me  much  to  think  of  you  two  listening  to  their  singularly 
thrilling  tones.  Oh,  surely,  surely,  there  is  some  conscious 
reunion  in  the  life  in  God  on  which  we  enter  when  we 
die !  I  will  not  think  our  yearning  for  it  merely  provi- 
sional. 

My  day  has  not  all  gone  in  setting  desks  and  cabinets 
to  rights.  I  have  read  a  great  deal  of  a  book  I  never 
take  up  without  a  stirring  of  the  deepest  thoughts.  It  is 
a  book  little  known  —  I  should  like  to  send  it  to  you  if 
you  will  post  it  back  'T  is  a  "  Theologico-Political  Trea- 
tise," by  G.  D'Oyly  Snow. 

I  wonder  if  I  shall  live  to  return  to  Patterdale.  Or, 
if  I  do,  whether  my  dear  old  landlady  will.  She  is  suf- 
fering from  her  eyes,  so  I  have  been  reading  to  her  a 
chapter  of  the  book  you  sent  me.  She  thought  it  beauti- 
ful, and  has  taken  the  book  down  to  her  husband.  I  am 
leaving  on  Saturday  next,  and  joining  Archie  and  Mary  in 
Edinburgh.  I  must  ask  you  to  direct  to  11  Thistle  St.  in 
future,  or  until  I  return  —  if  I  do  return  to  my  loved 
mountains.  See,  I  send  you  one  of  their  fairest  flowers 
-  I  dare  say  it  grows  four  times  as  large  with  you  —  we 
call  it  Grass  of  Parnassus.  I  said  I  was  alone,  but  I  was 


624  LUCY  SMITH. 

disrespectfully  forgetting  my  niece's  beautiful  Skye  ter- 
rier, who  is  better  than  any  but  the  best  as  far  as  com- 
panionship goes.  I  could  send  you  a  photograph  of  him, 
now,  that  would  really  equal  any  of  Landseer's  human 
dogs.  I  do  send  you  the  cottage  where  I  am  now,  where 
I  was  twenty-three  years  ago.  It  had  not  these  ugly  bow 
windows  then,  was  more  simply  a  mere  cottage.  But  up 
the  little  stairs  my  husband  has  often  sprung ;  and  the 
brook  — "  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears  that  in  those 
days  I  heard." 

I  cannot  enter  upon  the  sad  Irish  question.  We  are 
reaping  the  bitter  harvest  of  oppression  and  injustice 
sown,  and  I  fear  there  is  an  antagonism  of  race  to  con- 
tend with  as  well.  But  like  many  an  ill-assorted  union, 
divorce  would  if  possible  be  worse  for  both  sides.  You 
will  not  think  my  hand  much  better,  judging  from  my 
scrawl,  but  the  pen  has  much  to  do  with  it. 

To  Mrs.  A.  Constable. 

PATTERDALB,  Nov.  7,  1881. 

My  pretty  one  will  be  sorry  to  hear  that  the  pain  be- 
came so  continuous  and  severe  that  I  sent  for  the  doctor 
—  and  a  very  nice  young  man  he  is,  and  lent  an  ear.  He 
finds  no  symptoms  of  cardiac  disease,  such  as  he  suggested, 
and  considers  me  "  wonderfully  preserved  "  for  my  years. 
But  — :  the  two  pulses  are  he  says  singularly  discrepant, 
and  he  cheerfully  referred  to  "  aneurism  "  !  I  knew  the 
significance  of  the  symptom  from  Dr.  J.  Bell's  note  to 
you.  However,  to-morrow  he  comes  again,  armed  with  a 
stethoscope,  and  of  course  1  shall  be  thankful  if  he  do  not 
verify  his  theory,  but  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  it  is 
only  "  neuralgia  of  the  walls  of  the  chest."  He  says  that 
would  be  affected  by  fear  or  anxiety.  So  I  dare  say  't  is 
only  that.  Aneurism  would  mean,  I  suppose,  terrible  suf- 
fering—  but  as  far  as  shortened  life  goes,  that  seems 
strangely  sweet-  I  should  like,  dear  ones,  to  leave  you 


REUNITED.  625 

"  at  my  best."  I  read  those  lovely  lines,1  so  descriptive 
of  dearest  Mr.  Constable,  to  Mrs.  Dobson  last  night,  but 
find  speaking  brings  on  the  spasm,  and  oh,  it  was  bad 
while  I  read  —  but  't  is  worse  to-day.  During  the  inter- 
vals I  feel  quite  well,  and  have  worked  strenuously,  but 
fear  I  must  give  up  the  hope  of  finishing.  If  I  can't  fin- 
ish, I  know  my  chick  will.  Your  blackberries  look  so 
pretty !  I  have  only  two  fables  to  do.  Perhaps  I  may 
get  them  done.  You  see,  my  darling,  if  this  is  only  neu- 
ralgia, I  must  try  to  bear  it  patiently.  Think  of  sweet 
Louise !  And  how  your  dear  mother  has  suffered.  If  it 
is  something  organic,  it  will  be  hard  upon  you  —  but  I 
believe  Archie  and  you  would  not  wish  me  elsewhere. 
Perhaps  I  ought  to  stay,  however,  till  you  get  into  the  flat. 
I  shall  know  more  when  the  night  and  the  morning  visit 
is  over.  There  was  no  help  for  it,  'the  pain  is  so  bad,  and 
ether  and  sal  volatile  doing  nothing,  one  must  appeal  to 
this  young  man's  nostrums.  I  am  quite  unhappy  about 
sweet  Birnam.  He  does  so  resent  his  chain,  and  this 
evening  would  not  walk  with  Jane  in  that  ignominious 
way.  And  to-morrow  they  shoot  about  here,  and  alas,  he 
escapes  out  of  the  garden  though  the  gate  be  closed  —  I 
think  Patch  has  shown  him  the  way.  He  is  at  this  mo- 
ment lying  on  my  skirt,  profoundly  depressed.  He  is  so 
bent  on  a  rabbit-hole  —  Jane  brought  him  back  from  it 
this  morning.  He  was  50  lovely,  but  is  thwarted  and  out 
of  sorts  in  his  dear  spirits.  Oh,  how  delightful  intervals 
of  ease  are  !  I  am  so  glad  your  mother  had  a  good  night 
and  better  day.  I  like  Brownlow's  speech  much,  and  es- 
pecially the  closing  sentence.  Dear  fellow !  May  we  all 
be  taught  wisdom,  which  is  love !  I  hear  of  Wesleyan 
ministers  so  touched  with  my  angel's  book.  Oh,  no  way 
should  be  hard  that  leads  to  the  life  he  lives.  Perhaps, 
"  when  the  sun  sets  "  the  light  may  shine  out.  Do  not 

1  Lines  by  Whittier  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  July,  entitled  "  In 
Memory,' '  beginning  "  As  a  guest  who  may  not  stay." 


626  LUCY  SMITH. 

suppose,  my  darling,  I  am  taking  this  seriously,  as  yet, 
and  don't  let  your  dear  heart  be  anxious.  I  am  afraid,  if 
I  am  able  to  move,  Archie  must  come  for  me.  I  can  do 
nothing.  It  is  a  sudden  change.  Now  good-night,  my 
pretty  one,  and  I  dare  say  to-morrow  I  shall  tell  you  it 's 
only  neuralgia. 

To  Miss  H.  E.  Howard. 

PATTERDALE,  Nov.  15,  1881. 

VEKY  DEAR  FRIENDS,  —  How  sweet  of  you  to  care  so 
much  whether  the  end  comes  now  or  later  !  I  really  am 
doing  as  well  as  possible.  Were  you  here,  you  would  see 
me  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  purring  with  comfort,  thankful 
to  be  here  and  to  see  the  mist  on  the  hills  and  hear  the 
brook ;  and  every  one  is  kindness  itself ;  and  is  it  not 
lovely  to  think  that  all.  over  the  world  there  is  this  sacred 
sympathy  shedding  over  sick  beds  —  not  to  say  dying  — 
the  lustre  of  a  tenderness  that  blots  out  as  a  cloud  trans- 
gressions, and  makes  each  commonplace  creature  seem 
precious  and  fair.  This  came  home  to  me  strongly  in  the 
night  —  this  perpetual  transfiguration.  I  hear  my  Hessie 
say,  "  Come  to  the  point."  Well,  then,  the  doctor  has  just 
been  here,  and  says  the  pulse  is  getting  normal,  and  he  is 
not  coming  back  this  evening.  And  do  you  know,  my 
dears,  I,  so  little  disposed  to  faith  in  doctors,  thoroughly 
like  this  young  man,  and  were  this  illness  to  change  its 
character,  should  not  have  a  wish  for  a  second  opinion. 
And  then  the  immense  comfort  of  Archie  and  Mary. 

To  Miss  Dudley. 

PATTERDALE,  Nov.  20,  1881. 

Have  you  noticed  the  length  of  my  silence,  dear  Miss 
Dudley,  or  heard  its  cause  ?  I  have  been  pretty  sharply 
ill,  —  pleurodynia,  and  great  disturbance  of  the  liver.  I 
do  not  know  when  I  wrote,  whether  before  or  after  I 
saw  dear  Edith  off  from  the  Keswick  station  on  the  31st 


REUNITED.  627 

of  October,  and  went  on  to  see  poor  Mrs.  Lietch.  The 
old  scenes,  the  emotion  they  caused,  and  the  intense  cold 
of  the  drive  back  (though  in  a  close  carriage)  may  have 
had  something  to  do  with  it  —  but  on  the  Friday  following 
a  familiar  pain  in  the  walls  of  the  chest,  associated  for  the 
last  three  years  with  quickened  pace,  and  always  subsid- 
ing when  I  rested  —  began  to  become  very  frequent,  in 
the  house  and  without  any  unusual  effort.  On  Monday 
week  it  became  so  severe  as  to  force  me  to  call  in  the  local 
doctor  —  a  young  man  just  come  here,  of  whom  I  knew 
nothing.  He  came  —  suspected  heart  disease,  found  none, 
and  was  summoned  away  to  Edinburgh  on  the  Wednesday 
believing  me  convalescent.  But  my  Mary,  who  had  only 
reached  Edinburgh  the  Saturday  before,  felt  a  little  anx- 
ious about  me,  and  on  that  Wednesday  afternoon  she  ap- 
peared, to  pack  me  up,  and,  as  we  thought,  travel  together 
to  Edinburgh  on  Saturday.  However  —  after  being  bet- 
ter on  Thursday,  and  writing  many  letters  (was  one  to 
you?),  the  mere  exertion  of  preparing  for  bed  brought  on 
anguish.  All  through  those  dark  hours  my  little  love 
held  me  in  her  strong  and  tender  grasp.  The  pain  was 
severer  than  I  had  ever  known,  the  sickness  violent  and 
exhausting  — •  no  remedies  in  the  house,  and  no  doctor  pro- 
curable.1 It  must  have  been  hard  for  Mary.  She  sent 
to  Penrith  (fifteen  miles  off),  and  about  twelve  the  next 
morning,  when  the  pain  was  quieting  down,  the  doctor 
presented  himself,  and  after  a  careful  examination  pro- 
nounced the  heart  sound,  and  gave  the  attack  its  name. 
Friday  brought  Archie,  and  no  creature  can  have  been 
more  tenderly  nursed.  And  the  local  doctor  returned  that 

1  "  She  was  very  brave,"  writes  Mrs.  Constable,  "  and  her  own 
dear  self  all  through  ;  not  the  least  frightened,  and  able  to  give  her 
mind  to  things  outside  herself.  She  said  in  the  night  she  was  owing 
nothing  except  one  little  bill  of  one  shilling  two  pence  to  a  wool  shop 
in  Edinburgh  for  some  crewels." 


628  LUCY  SMITH. 

evening,  and  has  been  attentive  and  intelligent.1  But  the 
serious  thing  was  that  all  the  furniture  from  London  had 
arrived,  and  there  was  the  new  house  at  a  complete  stand- 
still, and  Mary  positively  refused  to  leave  me  alone,  nor 
indeed  was  I  fit  to  be  left.  But  my  noble,  invaluable 
Mrs.  Ruck,  who  had  with  her  Dr.  Darwin  and  the  little 
grandson,  her  eldest  son  and  his  wife  and  two  children, 
and  her  married  daughter,  Mrs.  Stuart  and  her  husband, 
—  who  had  all  these  gathered  round  her  and  depending 
on  her,  —  said  at  once  that  she  was  ready  to  come  at  a 
word.  And  on  Wednesday  2  last,  Archie  and  Mary  left, 
and  are  busy  settling  down  in  the  nest,  and  if  all  be  well 
my  darling  friend  and  I  travel  together  on  Friday  next  to 
Edinburgh,  and  she  returns  thence  to  her  Welsh  home. 
Is  it  not  a  blessing  that  there  should  be  souls  of  this  gen- 
erous type  ?  I  love  and  trust  her  so  much,  I  accept  the 
sacrifice  without  a  scruple.  I  have  felt  very  happy, 
dear  Miss  Dudley,  —  a  great  peace,  trust,  and  almost  vi- 
sion of  the  merciful  "  Power  that  worketh  in  us."  Every- 
thing seemed  so  sweetly  right.  But  this  was  a  very  short 
experience  of  illness,  though  it  left  me  weak,  and  I  do  not 
expect  to  regain  my  former  level  of  health  and  strength. 
...  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  with  Archie  and  Mary  —  but 

1  "  How  I  can  see  her  now,"  says  Mrs.  Constable,  "  as  she  dis- 
cussed her  symptoms  with  him  so  pleasantly,  with  her  own  inimitable 
charm  and  brightness  !  .  .  .  The  next  afternoon  she  sent  Archie  a 
round  of  visits  to  some  of  the  cottages,  with  a  pound  of  tea  to  be 
given  at  each,  on  which  she  had  written  the  name  of  the  recipient, 
and  a  different  kind  message  to  each.     The  day  before,  when  she 
was  in  that  intense  pain,  she  wrote  a  card  to  my  mother,  and  one  to 
a  friend." 

2  "  On  Monday," —  so  writes  Mrs.  Constable,  —  "the  doctor  thought 
her  decidedly  better,  though  still  very  weak.     It  was  a  very  sweet, 
mild  day,  and  she  enjoyed  having  the  window  open,  and  listening  to 
the  ripple  of  the  brook  which  ran  past  the  house.     She  asked  me  to 
place  the  looking-glass  so  that  she  could  see  the  hills  reflected  in  it, 
and  said  that  if  she  must  be  ill  she  could  not  wish  it  to  be  elsewhere 
than  at  her  beloved  Patterdale." 


REUNITED.  629 

have  liked  to  see  the  trees  wave  and  the  mists  creep  over 
the  mountains,  and  hear  the  brook  murmur  that  we  heard 
twenty-three  years  ago. 

Dear  friend,  I  know  how  brave  you  must  be  to  keep  a 
sense  of  loneliness  at  bay.  But  hearts  so  kind  and  sympa- 
thizing are  never  really  lonely. 

[Mr.  and  Mrs.  Constable  left  her  at  Patterdale,  No- 
vember 16,  and  Mrs.  Ruck  arrived  there  that  evening, 
going  from  the  Penrith  station  in  the  carriage  which  car- 
ried them  to  it.] 

To  Mrs.  A.   Constable. 

PATTEBDALB,  November  17,  1881. 

My  pretty  one,  how  glad  I  was  to  hear  of  the  meeting 
at  Penrith !  This  darling  was  so  struck  with  the  beauty 
of  you  both,  and  with  the  look  of  health.  You  may  won- 
der but  —  Birnam  she  never  saw !  This  does  not  prevent 
my  feeling  sure  he  was  in  the  arms  of  one  or  other.  How 
well  she  looks.  She  sits  there  in  the  window,  writing  her 
Hong  Kong  letter,  and  radiates  health.  Your  Zia  felt  a 
great  drop  in  her  vitality  when  you  three  departed.  The 
night  was  —  well  —  good.  I  had  my  bromide  of  potas- 
sium and  all  my  comforts  beside  me,  and  this  darling  read 
me  to  sleep  and  I  woke  as  it  struck  —  what  ?  —  one  — 
two  —  three  —  better  and  better  !  but  it  went  on  to 
twelve  !  I  felt  like  a  broken  egg,  so  prone  and  sprawly. 
I  think  when  I  wake  the  pulse  is  .very  low,  and  the  line 
occurs :  — 

"  To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain." 

I  woke  at  six,  refreshed  and  probably  better,  and  a 
little  after  eight  Jane  was  off  to  the  wedding.  I  think 
she  is  far  above  the  average,  and  really  she  was  interest- 
ing in  all  she  told  me  while  making  the  fire.  She  would 
have  liked,  things  being  otherwise,  to  be  "  Mr.  and  Mrs. 


630  LUCY  SMITH. 

Constable's  servant."  This  dear  one  is  full  of  pleasant 
talk  —  I  wish  I  could  transfer  it  —  of  the  grandson. 
Darling,  I  had  meant  to  say  more,  but  will  try  to  nap  a 
little. 

Well,  here  I  am,  moved  to  the  sitting-room,  which  is  a 
blaze  of  sun  after  a  hail-storm  which  I  fear  means  sever- 
ity with  you.  How  I  can  see  you  in  your  chaos,  and  how 
much  I  hope  you  are  to  have  a  good  luncheon  there !  Is 
not  H.  pleasant  about  you?  No  letters  for  you.  Not 
much  in  reading  mood.  All  organization  has  departed 
with  my  chick,  but  oh,  the  blessing  of  this  large,  lenient, 
loving  presence  !  She  is  writing  sheaves  of  home  letters, 
and  after  dinner  will  I  know  read  to  me.  I  am  as  much 
in  Edinburgh  as  here  —  so  anxious  about  the  parlour 
maid,  Quantrell's,  above  all  your  feeling  well. 

PATTBRDALE,  November  19,  1881. 

How  I  am  with  you,  unpacking  and  "  warstling  "  with 
the  Powers  of  Evil  in  the  North!  The  aggravation  is 
enough  to  drive  you  over  the  borders  of  sanity.  I  am 
thankful  not  to  be  there.  M.  A.  says  in  Wales  they  do 
a  little  bit  of  six  different  things  and  finish  nothing.  So 
only  you  don't  catch  cold!  I  find  it  hard  to  forgive 

Mrs. [some  one  who  had  failed  Mrs.  Constable  in  an 

emergency].  The  spoken  word  should  take  precedence 
of  personal  convenience  —  else  where  are  we  ?  Here  it 
pours  again,  and  the  river  runs  rapidly,  clear  green. 
Yesterday  was  a  day  qf  activity,  and  I  could  invent  noth- 
ing to  complain  of.  Last  night  I  woke  myself  out  of 
the  crisis  of  a  horrible  dream,  and  energy  is  low  this 
morning.  I  have  come  to  the  sitting-room,  so  to  speak, 
en  bloc,  and  shall  soon  remove  the  bundle  back  to  bed, 
and  fall  asleep,  I  dare  say,  for  I  can  sleep  on  my  side 
now,  and  am  only  stupid,  my  darling,  as  I  fear  I  often 
shall  be  —  but  surely,  sufficient  to  the  day  is  the  dul- 
ness  thereof.  Thank  you  much  for  Brand  —  so  kind  a 


REUNITED.  631 

thought!  Mary  Gumming  shall  be  written  to.  I  love 
you  fondly,  and  you  suit  me  "  down  to  the  ground,"  if 
that 's  any  praise  ! 

"  On  the  25th  of  November,"  writes  Mrs.  Constable, 
"the  dear  one  and  Mrs.  Ruck  reached  us  in  our  new 
abode.  The  long  stair  was  a  great  effort  for  her,  but 
when  she  reached  the  top  her  only  thought  was  of  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  us  settled  in  our  new  home,  and  her 
dear  face  looked  so  bright  and  animated  as  she  went  from 
one  room  to  another  with  her  unfailing  energy.  How 
thankful  I  was  to  have  her  under  our  roof,  and  how  I 
hoped  it  was  for  long !  She  was  very  much  pleased  with 
her  large  airy  bedroom,  and  said  she  thought  she  would 
spend  a  week  in  her  comfortable  little  bed,  and  then  be 
quite  set  up.  Dear  Mrs.  Ruck  spent  three  days  with  us, 
and  left,  thinking  our  dear  one  would  soon  regain  her 
strength.  But  she  did  not  gain  much  ground,  having  al- 
ternations of  good  and  bad  days.  On  some  days  her 
cough  would  be  very  troublesome,  or  she  would  have  some 
other  discomfort,  and  there  was  often  great  breathlessness 
after  any  exertion,  which  had  also  a  tendency  to  bring 
back  the  pain  in  her  chest  to  some  extent.  So  she  was 
a  good  deal  in  her  own  room,  either  in  the  bed  or  on  the 
sofa.  She  saw  her  friends,  and  would  read  with  great 
interest,  taking  great  delight  in  Dean  Stanley's,  '  Memo- 
rials of  Canterbury '  and  several  times  at  night  asking  for 
a  volume  of  Shakespeare. 

"  On  the  7th  of  December,  a  cold  windy  day,  she  felt  a 
great  longing  to  go  out,  and  had  a  cab  for  an  hour,  tak- 
ing the  pretty  little  housemaid  Christina  with  her.  She 
came  back  greatly  pleased  with  her  little  outing,  and 
came  to  my  room  (I  was  in  bed  with  a  bad  cold)  to  show 
me  the  Christmas  cards  she  had  chosen.  They  were  al- 
ways a  great  amusement  to  her,  and  she  would  laugh  and 
say  she  was  really  quite  childish  about  them." 


632  LUCY  SMITH. 

In  a  letter  written  on  the  llth  of  December,  to  one  of 
several  who  were  friends  though  they  had  never  seen  her 
and  only  knew  her  through  her  letters,  she  says,  speaking 
of  her  sharp  attack  at  Patterdale,  "  I  often  felt  strangely 
happy,  with  the  conviction  4 1  see  the  end,  and  know  it 
good  '  "  —  adding  further  on,  "  There  remains  an  earnest 
trust  that  '  Life  and  death  His  mercy  underlies.' " 

'•  On  Tuesday,  the  13th,  she  got  up  and  dressed  soon 
after  breakfast,  feeling  better  than  she  had  done  for  days. 
She  sat  at  her  work  all  the  morning,  and  in  the  afternoon 
she  began  tracing  scallops  on  the  pretty  pink  flannel,  to 
be  worked  in  white  silk  for  her  friend  H.  H.  She  got 
out  her  packet  of  Christmas  cards,  and  planned  the  des- 
tination of  many  —  a  work  of  some  little  time,  for  she 
had  to  see  there  were  no  inappropriate  words  —  no  wish- 
ing of  a  4  Merry  Christmas '  to  a  sorrowful  heart.  Her 
dear  friend  Mrs.  Lorirner  joined  us  as  we  were  having 
our  afternoon  coffee,  and  was  told  she  was  feeling  '  quite 
sharp '  —  so  much  better  than  the  days  before.  As  I  had 
had  a  wretched  night  from  a  bad  cold,  she  would  have  me 
go  to  bed  before  dinner,  and  came  herself  to  my  room 
with  a  soft  warm  shawl  of  her  own  for  me  to  put  on,  and 
came  again  more  than  once,  bringing  me  books  to  read, 
and  looking  after  me  in  her  own  dear,  intensely  tender 
way. 

44  After  dinner  she  came  and  told  me  she  must  go  and 
lie  down,  for  the  pain  in  her  back  was  so  bad,  and  when 
Archie  came  in  he  found  her  in  her  room  reading  the 
paper  and  delighted  with  a  speech  of  Sir  Wilfrid  Law- 
son's.  About  ten  she  came  to  wish  me  good-night,  and 
said  then  that  she  had  strange  discomfort  as  if  heart  and 
lungs  were  not  working  harmoniously.  She  had  men- 
tioned something  of  this  feeling  before,  but  this  time  when 
we  implored  her  to  have  advice  she  half  promised  4  we 
might  send  for  the  Faculty  the  next  day  if  we  could  prom- 
ise her  a  doctor  should  only  come  once.'  Christina  went 


REUNITED.  633 

to  help  her  to  undress,  and  told  me  afterward  '  she 
seemed  so  happy  and  comfortable,'  and  was  'so  nice,7 
thanking  Christina  for  her  help,  and  hoping  she  would 
have  a  good  night.  At  eleven  Archie  went  to  wish  her 
good-night.  She  was  then  in  bed  and  reading,  and  on  my 
sending  him  in  again  with  the  shawl  she  had  lent  me,  he 
came  back  saying  she  sent  her  kindest  love,  and  he  was 
to  tell  me  she  was  quite  comfortable." 

At  four  o'clock  the  next  morning  —  it  was  the  14th  of 
December,  1881  —  her  Archie  and  Mary  were  awaked 
by  hearing  cries.  They  rushed  out,  to  find  their  aunt 
sunk  down  on  a  chair  in  the  lobby  outside  her  door,  in 
acute  distress.  She  gasped,  "  It 's  the  end  "  —  instantly 
adding,  "  Love  to  all."  It  was  in  all  probability  angina. 
Alleviatives  were  tried,  and  in  a  few  minutes  a  doctor  was 
present.  Speaking  with  great  difficulty,  and  at  intervals, 
she  said  repeatedly,  "  It 's  the  end,"  and  added,  "  I  did 
not  think  it  would  have  come  so  soon."  To  the  niece 
kissing  her  hands,  and  saying,  "  Do  you  not  know  I  can- 
not live  without  you  ? "  she  tried  to  smile  —  and  more 
than  once  she  said,  "  Love  to  all."  She  was  wheeled  in 
an  easy  chair  into  her  room,  and  laid  upon  her  little  bed. 
"  By  this  time  she  was  becoming  unconscious,  and  when 
Archie  said  to  her,  4  You  are  going  to  join  your  beloved 
one,'  the  dear  beautiful  eyes  had  no  recognition  in  them. 
There  was  no  look  of  pain  on  the  dear  face,  no  shadow  of 
fear,  though  the  agony  had  been  so  great.  Through  all 
she  was  as  natural  as  she  ever  was  in  her  life.  She  lay 
very  still,  drawing  a  deep  breath  a  few  times  —  then  there 
was  the  silence.  Our  best  and  brightest  one  had  left  us." 

Some  time  in  that  night  she  had  begun  a  letter  to  a 
friend  in  Australia,  breaking  off  by  saying  that  she  must 
stop,  for  she  was  writing  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  Be- 
side her  bed  was  a  book,  "  Twilight  Hours,"  by  "  Sadie," 
in  which  was  found  a  skein  of  cotton  as  a  mark,  —  the 
poem  which  was  thus  pointed  out  was  too  familiar  to  need 


634  LUCY  SMITH. 

any  such  designation  for  herself,  and  it  seemed  as  if  she 
meant  it  as  a  message.  The  poem  is  called  "  After ; " 
one  of  its  lines  which  she  was  fond  of  quoting  was 

"  Some  one  with  wings  where  I  had  weary  feet." 
It  begins, 

"  Wait  for  a  moment,  Death,  I  pray  you  wait, 
I  have  been  waiting  years,  O  friend,  for  you." 

And  it  ends, 

"  Let  it  be  so  —  one  day  we  all  shall  meet." 

The  beloved  form  was  tenderly  dressed  in  the  grave- 
clothes  that  had  been  kept  ready  for  many  years,  and 
wrapped  in  the  white  dressing-gown  she  was  wearing  the 
night  her  husband  passed  away ;  the  white  lace  cap  she 
wore  that  day  again  covered  her  head,  and  over  the  face, 
very  calm  and  beautiful,  was  spread  the  white  lace  veil 
she  had  worn  in  the  hour  that  made  her  the  happiest  of 
wives.  Fresh  white  blossoms,  from  many  who  had  loved 
her,  covered  the  figure  from  face  to  feet.  It  was  laid  in 
the  grave  at  Brighton,  of  which  she  had  said  that  she 
thought  even  her  dust  would  thrill  with  delight  at  being 
so  near  that  of  her  husband. 

The  memorial  card  bore  this  inscription  :  — 

"  Love  is  of  God." 

"  And  this  commandment  have  we  from  him,  that  he 
who  loveth  God  love  his  brother  also." 

"  The  fruit  of  the  Spirit  is  love,  joy,  peace,  long-suffer- 
ing, gentleness,  goodness,  faith,  meekness,  temperance." 

"  The  path  of  the  just  is  as  the  shining  light,  that  shin- 
eth  more  and  more  unto  the  perfect  day." 

"  I  thank  my  God  upon  every  remembrance  of  you." 


"  The  last  text,"  wrote  Miss  Dudley,  "  brought  the  first 
relieving  tears  since  Dec.  18th.     Every  remembrance  of 


REUNITED.  635 

her  indeed  is  cause  for  thankfulness.  Yes,  her  spiritual, 
tender  joy  was  the  rarest  gift." 

"  I  can  think  of  nothing  else,"  wrote  another  friend, 
"  till  I  have  readjusted  iny  life,  as  it  were,  to  her  absence. 
For  many  years  everything  which  interested  me  I  have 
shared  with  her,  and  have  seldom  done  or  thought  any- 
thing without  asking  myself  what  her  judgment  in  the 
matter  would  be.  I  never  remember  her  failing  to  catch 
instantly  the  meaning  of  anything  I  said  or  did.  No 
other  friend  was  to  me  quite  so  congenial  and  delightful 
—  no  other  friendship  quite  so  loving  and  so  full  of  in- 
sight." 

Mrs.  Cotton's  letter  to  Mrs.  Constable  recognizes  the 
intellectual  power  which  went  along  with  her  genius  for 
love.  "  It  will  be  a  very  great  interest  for  you  to  make  a 
selection  from  her  priceless  letters,  if  they  be  sufficiently 
divested  from  the  purely  personal  elements,  and  I  am  very 
sure  that  no  more  exquisite  contribution  to  womanly 
thought  and  culture  could  be  given  to  this  generation. 
4  Who  taught  you  to  think  ? '  said  Eliot  Warburton  to  her 
in  her  beautiful  youth.  That  made  the  difference  be- 
twixt her  and  her  contemporaries  —  her  power  of  thought, 
which  became  her  greatest  solace  in  her  widowhood.  .  .  . 
There  is  yet  one  other  text,  besides  those  you  so  admira- 
bly chose,  that  rises  to  my  mind  at  every  thought  of  her, 
'  Be  pitiful,  be  courteous.'  The  large-minded  sympathy 
that  saw  a  possible  sufferer  in  every  one  she  met  influ- 
enced in  so  marked  a  degree  her  courteous  pity  toward 
the  poor  and  lowly,  her  reverent  attitude  toward  all  who 
needed  her  capacity  of  understanding  individual  wants 
and  sorrows.  I  could  well  understand  Mrs.  R.'s  feeling 
on  the  receipt  of  her  son's  letter  this  morning,  4  all  radi- 
ant in  the  light  accepted  love  imparts '  —  that  she  cried 
anew  over  the  loss  of  the  beloved  friend  to  whom  she 
would  first  have  turned,  with  the  confidence  that  her  Lucy 
would  have  liked  to  read  this  happy  letter." 


636  LUCY  SMITH. 

From  the  volume  of  such  tributes  only  one  more  shall 
be  cited,  —  it  is  from  the  Contessa  B.,  the  "  Augusta  "  at 
whose  marriage  Lucy  Smith  played  the  part  of  mother : 
"  What  you  say  is  what  I  think  all  her  friends  will  feel, 
that  after  the  husband  or  mother  or  child  who  may  be  the 
nearest,  she  comes  next,  separate  from  all  other  friends, 
in  a  special  place  of  her  own.  All  of  us  who  love  and 
admire  her  must  henceforth  be  bound  together  more 
closely  than  before  our  loss.  And  she  is  happy  now. 
Oh  yes,  my  dear  Vi,  that  was  my  first  thought,  as  my  first 
pang  was  to  think  that  she,  so  quick  to  tell  what  would 
give  pleasure,  could  not  tell  us  how  great  her  blessedness 
is.  But  I  always  see  her  dear  face  now  wearing  a  radiant 
smile,  with  all  the  yearning  anguish  passed." 

The  stone  inscribed  with  her  husband's  name  bears  an 
added  inscription,  which  she  had  dictated :  — 

TO    THE    MEMORY   ALSO   OF 
"  HIS   DEAR  WIFE   LUCY  " 

WHO   REJOINED  HIM  HERE  IN   HOPE,   DEC.  14,1881. 
"LOVE   IS   OF  GOD." 


APPENDIX. 


NOTE  TO  PAGE  68. 

Movements  of  Thought  in  the  English-American  People. 
THE  group  of  names  associated  with  William  Smith's 
early  years  naturally  suggests  a  glance  at  the  principal 
intellectual  forces  in  the  English-speaking  world  of  that 
time.  Some  survey  of  these  forces  is  desirable  for  a  just 
appreciation  of  the  course  taken  by  his  thought.  As  an 
appropriate  background  to  his  intellectual  history,  —  and 
one  which  if  occurring  in  the  midst  of  the  narrative 
might  be  felt  as  an  interruption,  —  a  brief  and  imperfect 
survey  of  this  field  is  here  ventured.  It  relates  mainly  to 
what  may  be  called  the  mid-period  of  this  century ;  subse- 
quent to  the  time  of  its  early  Evangelicalism,  of  Scott  and 
Byron  and  the  Lake  poets,  and  anterior  to  these  later 
years  in  which  the  names  of  Darwin  and  Spencer,  Mat- 
thew Arnold  and  George  Eliot,  hold  prominence.  It 
may  be  seen  in  "  Thorndale  "and  "  Gravenhurst "  how 
closely  William  Smith's  later  writings  are  related  to  the 
philosophy  of  Evolution,  which  at  present  fills  so  large  a 
place.  But  to  summarize  even  briefly  the  thought  and 
thinkers  of  our  own  generation  is  beyond  the  scope  of 
this  volume.  The  conspicuous  factors  of  the  present  sit- 
uation are  glanced  at  in  its  later  chapters ;  and  we  are 
still  so  near  to  the  days  of  Mill  and  Maurice  and  their 
contemporaries  that  in  describing  them  we  are  largely 
characterizing  our  own  time. 

We  have  to  consider,  first,  an  immense  extension  of 


638  APPENDIX. 

knowledge  in  the  direction  of  the  physical  sciences.  The 
influence  of  this  class  of  studies  upon  the  higher  problems 
of  man  and  society  has  been  various  and  vast.  It  has 
made  great  addition  to  the  store  of  facts  with  which  the 
philosopher  or  theologian  must  reckon.  Physical  science, 
too,  has  deeply  affected  the  general  movement  of  the 
human  mind,  by  the  circumstance  that  all  the  knowledge 
which  it  acquires  has  the  distinction  of  being  verifiable. 
It  affirms  no  discovery  as  certain  until  it  can  be  submitted 
to  tests  which  are  beyond  question,  —  tests  ultimately 
based  on  the  physical  senses.  This  solid,  impregnable 
character  of  physical  science  is  impressive  and  captivating 
to  the  mind ;  and,  taken  in  connection  with  the  immense 
extent  of  its  recent  acquisitions,  it  fosters  the  habit  of  ex- 
pecting and  insisting  on  the  same  note  of  certitude  in  all 
beliefs  that  are  to  be  regarded  as  valuable.  "  Prove,  or 
abandon,"  is  its  attitude.  Around  physical  science  are 
grouped  a  cluster  of  other  sciences,  relating  to  subjects 
which  do  not  admit  of  equally  exact  methods  of  verifica- 
tion, —  such  subjects  as  history,  language,  and  social  ad- 
ministration. What  is  common  to  all  study  that  may 
properly  be  called  science  is  the  method  of  close  and  pa- 
tient observation,  wide  comparison,  and  constant  and 
careful  test  of  general  conclusions.  The  effort  of  all 
science  is  to  obtain  knowledge  which  is  exact,  and  which 
is  capable  of  definite  proof. 

At  this  point  there  naturally  arises  the  question  whether 
there  are  general  laws  of  the  human  mind  which  must  be 
followed  in  all  sound  thinking  upon  whatever  subject. 
The  effort  to  establish  such  laws  makes  a  large  part  of  the 
history  of  philosophy.  A  clear  and  vigorous  restatement 
of  one  of  the  two  great  historic  schools  —  a  statement  en- 
tirely in  sympathy  with  the  current  attention  to  external 
phenomena  —  was  made  by  John  Stuart  Mill  in  his 
"  Logic."  He  found  his  strongest  opponent,  and  the  lead- 
ing champion  of  the  opposite  school,  in  Sir  William  Ham- 


MOVEMENTS  OF  THOUGHT.  639 

ilton.  Mill  represented  too  the  movement,  called  "  Utili- 
tarianism," toward  shaping  institutions,  laws,  and  usages, 
upon  principles  broad  yet  definite,  for  *'  the  greatest  good 
of  the  greatest  number."  It  was  a  movement  which  in 
its  practicality  and  also  in  its  moderation  was  character- 
istic of  the  English  intellect.  Among  the  philosophic 
thinkers,  Mill  was  the  most  conspicuous  champion  of  the 
special  measures  of  governmental  reform  and  popular  lib- 
erty in  his  day.  His  personal  character  embodied  the 
robust  and  manly  virtues  of  courage,  justice,  and  magnan- 
imity. He  made  abstract  themes  vital  by  "  one  ruddy 
drop  of  manly  blood."  In  an  abstruse  discussion  upon 
the  possibility  and  nature  of  human  knowledge  of  the  di- 
vine, he  struck  a  note  to  which  the  common  heart  re- 
sponded, when  he  declared  that  if  he  was  told  there  existed 
a  God  whose  morality  was  essentially  different  from  hu- 
man morality  he  would  answer :  "  He  shall  not  compel 
me  to  worship  him.  I  will  call  no  Being  good  who  is  not 
what  I  mean  when  I  apply  that  epithet  to  my  fellow-crea- 
tures ;  and  if  such  a  Being  can  sentence  me  to  Hell  for 
not  so  calling  him,  to  Hell  I  will  go." 

For  the  worshipping,  the  tender,  the  feminine  side  of 
man's  nature,  Mill  had  little  to  offer.  The  world  seemed 
to  him  to  show  no  evidence  that  it  was  under  any  divine 
control ;  it  was  full  of  injustice  and  imperfection ;  the 
only  thing  for  us  to  do  was  to  make  it  better.  He  had  a 
very  warm  heart,  which  found  its  nourishment  and  sup- 
port in  elements  which  his  philosophy  scarcely  took  at  all 
into  its  survey.  In  his  youth  he  was  helped  out  of  a  des- 
perate mood  of  despondency  by  Wordsworth's  poetry,  — 
poetry  inspired  by  beliefs  wholly  remote  from  the  sensa- 
tional philosophy.  The  happiness  of  his  life,  he  tells  us, 
was  in  his  relation  with  the  woman  whom  he  married. 
Such  love  of  man  and  woman,  like  all  noble  friendships, 
lies  in  a  realm  of  life  which  logic  and  philosophy  such  as 
his  have  absolutely  no  power  to  interpret.  In  his  last 


640  APPENDIX. 

days  he  was  driven  by  the  stress  of  love  and  sorrow  to 
study  those  very  problems  of  God  and  immortality  which 
he  had  been  wont  to  discard.  His  posthumous  essays  dis- 
cuss these  themes  with  entire  candor  and  courage,  and 
without  attaining  any  clear  and  certain  conclusion.  The 
earlier  habits  of  his  mind  scarcely  qualified  him  for  the 
most  effective  dealing  with  a  question,  of  which  it  may 
perhaps  be  said  that  the  older  form  was  "  Whether  God 
is,"  and  the  later  form  "  What  God  is."  But,  beyond 
the  interest  attaching  to  so  free,  fearless,  and  serious  a 
treatment  of  the  subject,  the  book  is  significant  as  an  in- 
stance of  how  the  stoutest  soul,  after  rigorously  confining 
itself  to  the  questions  of  Time,  may  be  driven  by  love  and 
loss  to  ponder  the  questions  of  Eternity. 

The  progress  of  scientific  knowledge  has  in  many  ways 
impressed  the  fact  that  what  we  call  the  spiritual  life  of 
man  is  closely  affected  by  physical  conditions.  There 
have  been  discovered  physical  antecedents  for  many  phe- 
nomena of  thought,  feeling,  and  will,  which  were  formerly 
referred  solely  to  the  spiritual  entity  assumed  to  be  in- 
cased within  the  human  body.  To'  these  physical  antece- 
dents it  is  impossible  to  deny  in  many  instances  a  force  of 
causation.  The  suggestion  is  advanced,  and  with  growing 
weight :  Has  not  every  mental  act  its  physical  antecedent 
or  concomitant  in  the  brain  ?  And  then  comes  the  ques- 
tion :  Is  not  a  physical  antecedent  always  the  determining 
cause  of  the  mental  act  ?  It  is  at  least  sure  that  the 
sphere  of  free  will  is  far  more  limited  than  was  once  sup- 
posed. The  supposition  finds  wide  favor,  that  all  the  phe- 
nomena of  mind  are  the  products  or  functions  of  the  bod- 
ily organism.  Man  in  this  view  is  not  twofold,  spirit 
and  body,  but  single,  and  as  an  individuality  is  terminated 
altogether  by  the  termination  of  the  body.  Against  this 
pure  materialism  stands  the  fact,  unaffected  by  all  the  new 
knowledge,  that  what  we  call  mental  phenomena  are  sim- 
ply untranslatable  into  terms  of  matter  ;  that  an  impassa- 


MOVEMENTS   OF   THOUGHT.  641 

ble  gulf  of  difference  lies  between  phenomena  of  motion 
and  phenomena  of  consciousness.  But  yet,  it  is  urged, 
though  there  be  a  mysterious  aspect  of  man's  activities,  a 
something  which  we  cannot  interpret  or  fathom,  yet  we 
know  these  spiritual  activities  solely  as  appearing  in  con- 
nection with  a  physical  organism  and  in  close  dependence 
on  it ;  and  of  any  separate  spiritual  entity,  or  any  persist- 
ence of  the  spiritual  functions  of  the  individual  after  the 
physical  organism  perishes,  we  do  and  can  know  nothing 
whatever.  As  of  the  individual,  it  is  said,  so  of  the  uni- 
verse :  as  to  any  ultimate  cause  back  of  its  outward  man- 
ifestations, we  can  neither  assert  nor  deny  nor  define. 
And  this,  in  place  of  materialism,  is  agnosticism.  Of  the 
new  thinking  of  our  time,  a  considerable  part  has  been 
done  on  the  assumption,  express  or  tacit,  that  subjects 
like  God  and  immortality,  and  everything  relating  to  su- 
perhuman being,  are  a  mere  waste  of  the  intellect.  The 
most  conspicuous  expression  of  this  assumption  was  given 
by  Comte,  who  formulated  the  whole  field  of  human  knowl- 
edge and  thought,  after  discarding  theology  and  meta- 
physics as  delusions  incident  to  the  childish  stages  of  the 
human  mind.  Of  this  "  Positive  "  philosophy,  Lewes  was  a 
prominent  representative  in  England.  The  temper  of  the 
English  Positivists  is  essentially  this :  "  Let  us  have  done 
with  make-believe :  let  us  away  with  superstitions  of  con- 
solation as  well  as  superstitions  of  horror  ;  let  us  get  out 
of  the  lumber-room  where  theology  and  metaphysics  have 
for  ages  been  piled  mountain-high  without  establishing 
one  verifiable  certainty,  and  betake  ourselves  altogether  to 
the  fields  of  real  knowledge  and  helpful  human  activi- 
ties." A  temper  like  this  has  spread  far  wider  than  the 
avowed  Positivists,  and  is  capable  of  blending  with  gener- 
ous and  ardent  human  sympathies.  When  united  with 
strong  moral  purpose,  there  issues  the  "  religion  of  hu- 
manity "  ;  a  religion  whose  creed  is  the  service  of  man- 
kind, and  the  attainment  through  mutual  effort  of  the 


642  APPENDIX. 

noblest  practicable  ideals  of  character,  without  expectation 
of  help  from  any  source  higher  than  man,  or  of  prolon- 
gation of  individual  existence  beyond  the  earthly  scene. 
This  is  the  religion  of  which  the  most  effective  exponent 
in  our  day  has  been  George  Eliot. 

We  have  here  considered  tendencies  of  thought  which 
in  their  free  expression  might  be  dated  as  belonging 
rather  to  the  later  than  the  earlier  years  of  William 
Smith.  But  in  the  earlier  years,  these  tendencies  min- 
gled with  the  thoughts  and  appeared  at  least  in  the  con- 
versation of  men  such  as  were  among  his  associates.  The 
more  open  and  obvious  currents  of  opinion  in  those  days 
related  to  the  Church. 

At  the  opposite  pole  to  the  Positivists  stand  the  High 
Churchmen.  Essentially,  we  may  say,  the  founders  of  the 
modern  High  Church  party  in  England  were  men  who 
were  bent  on  preserving  and  extending  the  old  type  of 
Christian  piety.  What  Newman  and  Keble  and  Pusey 
and  their  associates  had  most  at  heart  was  that  themselves 
and  their  fellow-men  should  be  rich  in  faith  and  hope  and 
charity.  They  dearly  prized  those  ideals  which  the  old 
Church  has  especially  nourished,  —  humility  in  the  pres- 
ence of  God  ;  communion  with  glorified  spirits  and  with 
God  himself  ;  a  life  rooted  in  the  unseen  and  eternal, 
against  the  seductions  of  base  pleasure  and  ambition  ;  a 
life  athirst  for  perfection,  and  assured  of  an  immortal 
destiny. 

The  maintenance  of  this  type  of  character  has  been 
rendered  increasingly  difficult  by  many  of  the  circum- 
stances of  modern  life.  The  High  Churchmen  looked  for 
aid  to  the  apparatus  which  the  Church  had  provided,  and 
sought  to  give  to  that  apparatus  a  new  efficiency.  The 
Church  had  gradually  during  the  ages  provided  a  great 
system  of  appliances,  —  a  priesthood  for  spiritual  direction, 
liturgies,  fasts  and  feasts,  rules  and  precepts,  a  literature 
of  devotion  and  of  learning,  the  seclusion  of  cloisters  and 


MOVEMENTS   OF   THOUGHT.  643 

retreats,  activities  of  preaching  and  labor ;  —  presenting 
meanwhile,  with  infinite  variety  of  appeal  to  the  imag- 
ination, a  universe  alive  with  spiritual  presences,  —  the 
saintly  souls  of  all  ages,  a  world  of  angelic  beings,  the  di- 
vine-human Mediator,  and  the  God  and  Father  of  all. 
This  conception  of  the  spiritual  world  was  made  vivid  and 
familiar  by  a  whole  cultus  of  rites  and  observances. 
Such,  in  Its  ideal  and  aim,  was  the  medieval  Church  ; 
such  might  and  should  be  the  Church  of  England,  was  the 
purpose  that  ripened  in  a  little  company  at  Oxford.  An 
element  in  their  conception  was  an  insistency  upon  the 
paramount  authority  of  the  Church  over  the  conduct  arid 
thought  of  the  individual.  In  dealing  with  the  Church  of 
England  as  it  actually  existed,  they  were  obliged  to  urge 
upon  that  body  the  exercise  of  functions  which  it  had  long- 
laid  aside  or  had  never  exercised,  and  they  found  the 
larger  •  number  of  their  fellow-churchmen  strenuously  op- 
posed to  them.  As  a  consequence,  the  most  logical  and 
thorough-going  of  their  number  passed  over  to  the  Church 
of  Rome.  To  the  only  type  of  mind  that  is  now  suscep- 
tible to  any  claim  of  human  infallibility  the  Roman 
Church  appeals  with  incomparably  more  power  than  any 
other.  That  church,  too,  does  actually  undertake  in  some 
measure  that  full  and  definite  provision  for  the  direction 
of  the  lives  of  its  members  which  has  in  all  Protestant 
bodies  dwindled  into  a  fragment  or  a  tradition.  John 
Henry  Newman  went  slow  but  straight  to  his  natural 
and  proper  home  in  the  bosom  of  that  church.  Only  a 
handful  of  his  countrymen  followed  him  there.  Their 
proposition  —  that  a  certain  body  of  men  are  the  author- 
itative custodians  and  expounders  of  religious  truth  —  is 
diametrically  hostile  to  the  modern  spirit.  Newman  holds 
that  the  reason  shares  the  depravation  of  human  nature 
wrought  by  Adam's  fall.  He  asks  ("  Apologia,"  Part 
VII.):  "What  must  be  the  face-to-face  antagonist  by 
which  to  withstand  and  baffle  the  fierce  energy  of  pas- 


644  APPENDIX. 

sion,  and  the  all-corroding,  all-dissolving  skepticism  of 
the  intellect  in  religious  matters  ?  .  .  .  I  am  not  speak- 
ing of  right  reason,  but  of  reason  as  it  acts  in  fact  and 
concretely  in  fallen  man.  ...  I  know  that  even  the  un- 
aided reason,  when  correctly  exercised,  leads  to  a  belief 
in  God,  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  in  future  ret- 
ribution ;  but  I  am  considering  it  actually  and  histori- 
cally, and  in  this  point  of  view  I  do  not  think  I  am  wrong 
in  saying  that  its  tendency  is  towards  a  simple  unbelief 
in  matters  of  religion.  No  truth,  however  sacred,  can 
stand  against  it  in  the  long  run."  He  finds  the  only  ad- 
equate resource  in  an  authoritative  revelation,  interpreted 
by  an  infallible  church.  It  is  this  absolute  distrust  of 
the  human  intellect  —  except  as  it  follows  with  docility 
the  pronouncements  of  the  minds  congregated  at  Nicrea, 
at  Trent,  and  at  the  Vatican  —  which  marks  the  most 
radical  of  all  existing  divisions  in  the  mind  of  Europe. 
But,  while  making  little  permanent  impression  on  the 
general  course  of  thought,  Newman  and  his  close  follow- 
ers, as  well  as  Keble,  Pusey,  and  their  successors,  have 
made  a  distinct  and  notable  contribution  to  the  higher 
life  of  England.  They  have  embodied  in  life  and  in  lit- 
erature illustrations  of  some  of  the  finest  and  fairest  of 
human  qualities.  The  founders  of  the  school  gave  a  pow- 
erful moral  impulse,  which  displayed  itself  originally  in 
the  development  of  the  devout  and  contemplative  virtues, 
but  at  a  later  period  allied  itself  energetically  with  a 
more  active  benevolence,  so  that  the  most  honorable  an- 
nals of  the  High  Church  and  Ritualist  party  are  written 
not  in  the  cloisters  of  Oxford,  but  in  the  slums  of  the 
great  cities.  And  of  the  Catholic  secession,  a  Protestant 
may  count  it  the  highest  service  that  the  example  of  their 
leader  has  done  much  to  keep  the  saintly  character  a  liv- 
ing reality  to  the  mind  of  modern  England. 

The  strongest  element  in  the  Church  of  England  and 
also  in  the  Dissenters  at  the  beginning  of  this  century  had 


MOVEMENTS   OF   THOUGHT.  645 

been  the  Evangelical  or  Low  Church  party.  It  was  the 
theological  representative  of  Calvinism,  Puritanism,  and 
the  religious  revivals  of  the  eighteenth  century.  But 
this  type  of  religion,  though  still  retaining  a  strong  hold 
on  the  popular  feeling,  and  in  the  field  of  philanthropy 
represented  by  such  illustrious  examples  as  Shaftesbury, 
and  still  capable  of  very  aggressive  and  successful  activ- 
ity, as  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Spurgeon  and  the  American 
"  evangelists,"  is  hardly  to  be  reckoned  with  longer  as  an 
intellectual  force. 

In  contrast  with  the  effort  of  the  new  High  Church 
party  to  maintain  piety  by  the  exclusion  of  innovating 
thought  was  that  movement  in  which  Maurice  is  one  of 
the  central  figures,  —  the  movement  to  associate  the  tra- 
ditional and  ecclesiastical  Christianity  in  a  friendly  alli- 
ance with  the  new  knowledge.  We  may  distinguish  here 
two  cooperating  forces,  of  which  Dr.  Arnold  and  Coleridge 
may  be  taken  as  the  respective  representatives :  modern 
scholarship,  at  once  modifying  and  vivifying  the  historical 
interpretation  of  Christianity ;  and  a  spiritual  philosophy, 
seeking  the  inspiration  and  sanction  of  religious  belief  in 
the  soul  itself,  while  finding  in  the  creeds  and  dogmas  of 
Christianity  a  substantiation  of  the  solitary  individual 
faith  in  the  general  affirmations  of  enlightened  mankind. 
The  Broad  Church  movement  was  an  attempt  to  blend 
harmoniously  within  the  Christian  church  the  ethical,  the 
devotional,  and  the  intellectual  elements  in  religion.  On 
the  ethical  side,  it  recognized  the  wide  and  enlarging  rela- 
tions into  which  man  is  brought  by  the  complex  develop- 
ment of  modern  society.  Where  the  High  Churchman 
sought  to  preserve  the  best  virtues  of  the  old  society,  the 
Broad  Churchman  labored  to  develop  the  virtues  which  the 
new  order  demands  —  to  promote  civic  virtue,  to  guide  so- 
cial reorganization,  and  to  assimilate  new  truth.  Arnold 
of  Rugby  was  its  early  representative,  with  his  manly 
character,  his  devotion  to  education  in  its  fullest  sense,  and 


646  APPENDIX. 

his  intense  interest  in  the  political  life  of  England.  In  the 
next  generation,  Maurice  carried  an  equally  earnest  and 
lofty  spirit  into  the  social  struggles  and  problems  which 
were  coming  to  the  front ;  and  in  him  too  with  this  practical 
bent  there  blended  a  pure  and  devout  spirit  of  piety.  There 
was  a  similar  union  in  Kobertson,  —  advocate  of  the  poor, 
friend  of  the  workingman,  and  wise  in  that  deepest  wis- 
dom which  guides  the  heart  in  its  effort  for  the  perfect 
life.  Kingsley  was  another  type,  with  his  sympathetic, 
susceptible  temperament,  his  love  for  outdoor  life,  and  his 
flashes  of  poetry.  On  its  intellectual  side,  the  Broad 
Church  school  had  a  sympathy  with  all  liberal  study,  and 
especially  with  the  survey  of  mankind  in  its  historical  as- 
pects ;  a  spirit  of  which  there  is  no  better  example  than 
Dean  Stanley's  u  History  of  the  Jewish  Church."  The 
Broad  Churchmen  were  engaged  in  a  gradual  modifica- 
tion of  traditional  dogma,  and  at  the  same  time  in  a  de- 
fence of  Christian  dogma  in  its  large  interpretation  as  an 
expression  of  the  essential  truths  of  religion.  In  their 
essays  at  modification,  they  were  greatly  embarrassed  by 
the  established  formularies  of  the  Church  of  England,  in 
which  they  were  driven  (as  had  been  the  High  Church- 
men) to  discover  an  astonishing  degree  of  elasticity ; 
while  even  to  such  elasticity  there  were  limits  which  it 
might  become  extremely  difficult  to  reconcile  with  the 
principles  of  free  investigation  which  the  Broad  Church- 
men professed.  So,  too,  while  the  appeal  to  "  Christian 
consciousness,"  as  Schleiermacher  phrased  it,  —  to  the 
soul's  natural  or  acquired  instinct  of  love  and  worship 
of  a  being  higher  than  itself,  —  while  this  appeal,  uttered 
by  such  voices  as  Coleridge  and  Maurice  and  Robertson, 
found  a  wide  and  deep  response  ;  and  while  such  emo- 
tion might  find  expression  in  the  familiar  language  of 
Christian  worship ;  yet  there  was  a  growing  difficulty  in 
satisfying  thorough  and  strenuous  minds  that  the  proposi- 
tions embodied  in  the  dogmatic  system  of  supernatural 


MOVEMENTS  OF   THOUGHT.  647 

Christianity  were  the  legitimate  and  necessary  counter- 
part of  these  experiences  of  the  soul.  Certainly  that 
phraseology  of  belief  and  worship  which  was  moulded  by 
piety  blended  with  mediaeval  philosophy  hardly  affords 
the  most  suitable  expression  to  the  piety  nurtured  under 
modern  thought.  In  a  word,  the  Broad  Churchmen  after 
a  time  found  themselves  engaged  to  an  embarrassing  de- 
gree in  putting  new  wine  into  old  bottles.  All  that  has 
been  said  of  them,  as  one  school  in  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, applies  in  a  measure  to  the  most  thoughtful  ele- 
ment in  all  Protestant  bodies  ;  except  that  most  of  these 
denominations,  and  notably  the  various  Independent 
churches,  have  been  less  hampered  by  inherited  creeds,  be- 
cause governed  by  constitutions  which  admit  more  easily 
of  change.  In  America,  the  broadening  and  enriching  of 
the  old  creed  has  gone  on  under  the  eloquent  leadership 
of  such  men  as  Beecher,  Bushnell,  Brooks,  Abbott,  and 
Munger,  until  that  element  diffused  throughout  the  Evan- 
gelical churches  under  the  name  of  the  New  Orthodoxy  is 
practically  relinquishing  all  of  the  old  dogmatic  scheme, 
save  for  a  new  and  enthusiastic  emphasis  on  the  divinity 
of  Christ. 

A  more  radical  departure  from  the  old  creed,  a  more 
direct  employment  of  intellectual  inquiry  in  the  service 
of  ethical  purpose  and  spiritual  feeling,  has  been  made 
in  the  Unitarian  bodies  of  Great  Britain  and  America. 
Their  isolated  position  among  other  sects  has  been  a  disad- 
vantage, and  the  growing  pressure  of  radical  problems  has 
heightened  in  their  clergy  the  tendency  to  abstract  specu- 
lation ;  and  these  circumstances,  together  with  the  diffi- 
culty of  combining  perfect  intellectual  freedom  with  strong 
organization,  have  operated  to  greatly  limit  their  influ- 
ence as  a  popular  force.  But  in  both  countries  they  have 
made  important  contributions  to  the  national  life.  In 
England  the  foremost  representative  of  philosophic  theism 
is  Martineau ;  while  in  America,  where  the  overshadowing 


648  APPENDIX. 

presence  of  an  established  church  is  not  felt,  the  Unita- 
rian influence,  though  in  its  ecclesiastical  form  reaching 
but  a  small  number,  has  played  a  foremost  part  in  the 
leadership  of  the  country  in  literature  and  moral  progress. 
The  American  Unitarians,  slowly  yielding  to  the  influences 
represented  by  Emerson  and  Parker,  have  as  a  body 
tended  to  divest  the  affirmation  of  a  theistic  faith  from 
any  reliance  upon  a  supernatural  revelation.  In  a  more 
direct  and  unhampered  way  than  any  other  sect,  they  have 
essayed  to  blend  the  spirit  of  piety  with  the  new  forms  of 
thought.  Their  movement  has  not  yet  showed  that  ardor 
and  volume  of  spiritual  force  which  can  waken  a  multi- 
tude to  new  life,  and  create  agencies  for  the  employment 
of  that  life.  But  toward  such  a  result  they  have  made  a 
distinct  contribution,  in  exemplifying  the  courageous  and 
clear  treatment  of  intellectual  problems,  —  such  a  treat- 
ment as  can  alone  save  the  "  Church  of  the  Future,"  if 
such  there  is  to  be,  from  superstition  and  fanaticism. 

The  three  foremost  names  in  American  church  history 
are  Channing,  Parker,  and  Beecher.  In  Channing  the 
slowly  ripening  dissent  of  the  best  intelligence  of  New 
England  from  Calvinism  found  clear  expression,  —  that 
Calvinism  which  in  the  previous  century  Edwards  had 
formulated  and  proclaimed  anew.  In  Channing  that  dis- 
sent became  an  affirmation.  The  emphasis  of  Calvinism 
was  on  human  depravity ;  he  asserted  the  dignity  of  hu- 
manity. It  was  the  religious  expression  of  a  sentiment 
which  had  given  one  of  the  impulses  of  the  French  Rev- 
olution ;  but  Channing's  ideal  man  was  a  very  different 
figure  from  Rousseau's.  The  recognition  of  human  nobil- 
ity led  to  a  recasting  of  theology.  An  atonement  to 
reconcile  God  and  man  no  longer  appeared  necessary. 
Channing  relinquished  not  only  the  predestination  of  Cal- 
vin, but  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity,  as  Priestley  before 
him  had  done.  His  theology  was  Christianity,  less  the 
atonement  and  the  Trinity,  but  with  an  emphatic  super. 


MOVEMENTS  OF  THOUGHT.        649 

naturalism  and  a  superhuman  Christ.  He  was  a  man 
of  pure  and  lofty  piety,  and  refined,  scholarly,  impressive 
character.  Under  the  voluntary  system,  the  ostracism  of 
himself  and  his  ministerial  associates  by  the  Orthodox 
body  resulted  simply  in  a  new  sect,  composed,  however,  of 
a  large  group  of  the  old  churches,  whicli  suffered  no  break 
of  historical  continuity,  and  showed  no  very  salient  con- 
trast with  their  former  associates.  The  highly  intellect- 
ual tastes  of  their  ministry,  together  with  the  social  ad- 
vantages of  their  lay  constituency,  constituted  a  strong 
conservative  force.  On  their  rolls  were  many  of  the  fore- 
most names  in  American  literature  ;  in  their  ranks  social 
reform  found  numerous  recruits ;  their  clergy  exemplified 
the  best  traditions  of  the  clerical  character.  But  an  orig- 
inal thinker  like  Emerson  found  their  decorous  ecclesias- 
ticism  too  narrow  for  him  ;  the  mass  of  the  people  were 
little  affected  by  their  unemotional  tone  ;  and  the  devout 
felt  a  depressing  influence  in  the  relinquishment  of  one  doc- 
trine after  another,  like  the  chill  from  rapid  evaporation. 
In  this  grave,  sincere,  placid  company,  rose  Theodore 
Parker,  a  "  son  of  thunder."  He  had  scarcely  a  great 
mind,  but  he  had  a  great  heart,  ample  learning,  an  intrepid 
intellect,  and  the  fullest  courage  of  his  convictions.  For 
supernatural  Christianity  he  substituted  a  simple  and 
positive  theism.  The  "  Christ "  of  the  church  and  of  Chan- 
ning  became  to  Parker  simply  "  Jesus  "  —  first  of  men, 
but  human  and  fallible.  He  sent  home  the  ideas  of  the 
fatherhood  of  God  and  the  brotherhood  of  men  with  words 
of  fire.  He  carried  his  gospel  into  the  market-place  and 
the  senate-house ;  he  struck  like  a  Hebrew  prophet  at 
commercial  greed,  at  slavery,  at  ceremonialism,  at  every 
popular  and  fashionable  sin.  He  scared  the  Unitarians 
as  they  had  scared  the  Orthodox  ;  they  put  him  under  ban 
— in  vain.  In  the  next  generation  they  were  his  disciples. 
He  had  the  fervor  of  Augustine,  the  courage  of  Luther, 
the  rough  honesty  of  Knox,  the  democracy  of  Lincoln, 


650  APPENDIX. 

and  the  tenderness  of  a  woman.  The  man  was  greater 
than  his  visible  work.  His  learning  was  in  the  direction 
of  philosophy  and  criticism  ;  and  the  absence  of  scientific 
ideas  may  be  a  limit  on  his  permanent  influence.  Per- 
haps his  most  abiding  contribution  to  literature  will  be 
his  few  recorded  prayers,  —  unsurpassed  in  fervor,  ten- 
derness, gratitude,  and  aspiration.  The  ardor  of  his  work 
consumed  him  prematurely ;  he  died  in  what  should  have 
been  mid-life,  leaving  the  influence  of  a  heroic  personality 
—  one  of  the  greatest  figures  in  American  history. 

Henry  Ward  Beecher  —  the  son  of  Channing's  fore- 
most opponent  —  transformed  more  deeply  than  Chan- 
iiing  the  spirit  of  Orthodoxy,  yet  never  broke  with  its 
ecclesiastical  fellowship.  He  had  a  great  imaginative 
genius,  a  tropical  temperament  and  splendor  of  oratory,  a 
sublimity  of  moral  conceptions.  He  was  the  complete 
reverse  of  Puritan  asceticism.  His  sympathetic  interpre- 
tation of  the  familiar  and  homely  phases  of  humanity,  his 
humor,  his  delight  in  all  the  joyful  and  beautiful  aspects 
of  life,  won  for  his  message  the  gladdest  acceptance.  He 
stood  amidst  the  rushing  throng  of  the  great  city,  and 
gave  to  its  restless  activities,  to  the  scenes  of  the  home, 
to  the  solitudes  of  Nature,  an  interpretation  so  lofty  and 
inspiring  that  his  hearers  were  thrilled  and  uplifted.  He 
was  more  entertaining  than  any  theatre.  Like  an  organ- 
ist on  his  instrument  he  played  on  his  great  audiences, 
drawing  smiles,  laughter,  tears,  at  will ;  moving  them  to 
pity,  to  mirth,  to  wrath,  to  resolve,  to  worship,  to  rapture. 
No  voice  could  open  the  fountains  of  consolation  like  his. 
Beside  a  grave  his  words  came  like  light  from  Heaven. 
He  was  a  champion  of  liberty  and  democracy.  Feeling 
rather  than  thought  moulded  his  creed.  He  dropped  the 
harsher  elements  of  Orthodoxy,  but  only  to  magnify  what- 
ever in  that  system  was  most  comforting  to  the  heart  and 
inspiring  to  the  imagination.  He  gave  fresh  emphasis  to 
the  deity  of  Christ,  and  in  his  sermons  the  place  of  God 


MOVEMENTS  OF   THOUGHT.  G«31 

is  almost  exclusively  filled  by  that  glorified  figure.  He 
never  pressed  home  the  question,  Is  it  true  ?  against  any 
idea  that  was  morally  pleasing.  His  weakness  lay  in 
the  excessive  sway  over  his  mind  of  the  pleasurable.  He 
depicts  the  distortions  and  the  tyranny  of  conscience ;  he 
appreciates  that  "  inflammation  of  the  moral  sense,"  from 
which  New  England  is  said  to  have  suffered  ;  but  he  fails 
in  emphasis  on  duty  as  the  law  of  life.  Even  in  his  pres- 
entation of  love  as  the  central  element  in  humanity  and 
divinity,  the  impression  is  sometimes  left  that  the  love 
here  viewed  is  the  most  delightful  of  emotions  rather  than 
that  charity  which  suffereth  long  and  seeketh  not  her 
own.  In  speech  sometimes,  in  character  often,  the  heroic 
note  was  lacking.  He  was  shy  of  unpopular  causes.  Be- 
yond any  other  man  he  undermined  the  doctrine  of  eter- 
nal punishment,  but  he  never  expressly  disavowed  it  until 
disavowal  had  ceased  to  be  perilous.  He  faced  a  Liver- 
pool mob  like  a  lion  at  bay ;  he  underwent  a  far  worse 
ordeal  with  unblenching  resolution  —  yet  the  final  impres- 
sion he  gave  was  of  a  greatness  intellectual  rather  than 
moral.  His  personality  was  more  complex  than  any 
dramatist  ever  portrayed ;  his  service  is  best  summed  up 
in  the  eulogy,  "  He  did  more  than  any  man  in  America 
to  convert  religion  from  a  fear  into  a  hope." 

Thomas  Carlyle  stands  as  a  representative  of  spiritual 
revolution.  To  sum  up  the  man  himself  in  a  paragraph 
is  as  impossible  as  to  express  a  soul  by  an  algebraic  for- 
mula, —  amazing  compound  that  he  was  of  genius,  sensi- 
bility, power,  humor,  scorn,  tenderness,  gloom,  purpose, 
petulance,  whim,  and  dyspepsia.  But  what  he  most  dis- 
tinctly represents  in  the  life  of  the  age  is  a  fresh  awaken- 
ing of  moral  energy  and  aspiration,  which  finds  all  existing 
creeds  and  institutions  inadequate,  and  which  acts  as  a 
quickening,  uplifting  force  in  the  heavy  mass  of  society. 
Carlyle  is  like  the  revived  soul  of  old  Calvinism,  disem- 
bodied from  its  creed,  roaming  unhoused  through  the  new 


652  APPENDIX. 

world,  and  shaming  by  its  lofty  port  all  baseness  and  pre- 
tence. He  shows  the  best  of  Scotch  Calvinism,  its  atti- 
tude toward  life  as  a  moral  warfare,  its  uncompromising 
veracity,  its  awe  in  the  presence  of  Deity,  He  has  some 
of  its  worse  traits  —  something  of  its  fierceness,  its  bigotry, 
the  severity  of  the  Old  Testament  almost  unsoftened  by 
the  sweetness  of  the  New.  He  represents  a  larger  knowl- 
edge than  Calvinism  possessed,  and  he  throws  off  its 
crude  theology  as  his  ancestors  threw  off  the  yoke  of 
Rome.  The  source  of  his  revolt,  we  may  say,  is  his  recog- 
nition of  far  wider  and  more  complex  realities  than  the 
old  formula  covered.  Calvinistic  theology  ignored  not 
only  the  new  knowledge  which  science  was  already  bring- 
ing in  :  it  was  blind  to  the  infinite  varieties  in  human  na- 
ture ;  it  fixed  its  gaze  resolutely  on  moral  good  and  evil, 
on  God  and  the  devil,  the  sinner  and  the  saint,  and  out  of 
these  elements  built  its  universe.  Carlyle's  perceptions 
are  alive  to  everything  in  man.  He  catches  details  with 
the  accuracy  of  a  photograph.  He  feels  the  majesty  of 
the  whole  with  perpetual  wonder  and  awe.  His  sense  of 
humor  unlocks  a  realm  to  which  the  dogmatist  is  blind. 
It  is  perhaps  his  greatest  service  that  he  brings  us  in  close 
touch  with  the  realities  of  existence.  He  does  not  explain 
the  world,  he  vivifies  it,  —  the  scales  of  use  and  dulness 
fall  from  our  eyes,  and  we  move  among  forms  of  beauty 
and  grandeur  and  terror  and  tenderness.  His  early  voice 
rang  out  like  a  trumpet-call,  —  arousing,  enraging,  de- 
lighting. It  was  a  voice  that  boded  ill  to  the  existing 
order,  and  in  young  and  ardent  spirits  waked  high  hopes 
of  a  better  day.  But  when  Carlyle  had  led  his  followers 
out  of  Egypt  into  the  wilderness,  his  leadership  ended  — 
he  had  no  Promised  Land  to  guide  them  to.  He  gives  us 
little  consciousness  of  an  ordered  universe,  and  little  help 
toward  an  ordered  society.  His  main  idea  of  social  order 
is  that  of  an  able  man  dominating  the  crowd.  He  has 
small  appreciation  of  the  slow,  patient,  compromising 


MOVEMENTS   OF  THOUGHT.  653 

methods  by  which  English  self-government  has  been  built 
up.  He  has  no  recognition  that  the  humble  investigations 
of  physical  science  may  ultimately  throw  light  on  the 
higher  problems,  and  that  the  new  knowledge  may  blend 
with  the  old  faith  to  reconceive  and  reanimate  for  man 
the  spiritual  order  of  the  universe.  We  feel  in  him  a 
want  of  that  receptive,  patient  attitude  of  the  intellect, 
which  scientific  study  has  developed  almost  as  a  new  virtue 
in  mankind,  and  we  feel  too  a  personal  lack  of  that  pa- 
tience and  self-command  which  mark  the  highest  charac- 
ters. Yet  on  the  whole,  it  may  be  repeated,  Carlyle  im- 
presses us  like  the  soul  of  the  old  religion,  disembodied, 
and  finding  as  yet  no  corporeal  home  —  but  keeping  alive 
always  the  flame  of  aspiration  and  heroic  effort.  He  is 
a  revolutionist,  but  he  foretokens  a  nobler  order  than  that 
which  is  perishing.  His  special  message  can  hardly  be 
better  indicated  than  by  two  passages  from  his  letters  to 
Sterling :  — 

You  say  finally,  as  the  key  to  the  whole  mystery,  that  Teu- 
felsdrockh  does  not  believe  in  a  "  personal  God."  It  is  frankly 
said,  with  a  friendly  honesty  for  which  I  love  you.  A  grave 
charge,  nevertheless,  —  an  awful  charge,  —  to  which,  if  I  mis- 
take not,  the  Professor,  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart,  will  reply 
with  some  gesture  expressing  the  solemnest  denial.  In  gesture 
rather  than  in  speech,  for  the  Highest  cannot  be  spoken  of  hi 
words.  Personal !  Impersonal !  One !  Three !  What  mean- 
ing can  any  mortal  (after  all)  attach  to  them  in  reference  to 
such  an  object  ?  Wer  darf  Ihn  nennen  ?  I  dare  not  and  do 
not.  .  .  .  By  God's  blessing,  one  has  got  two  eyes  to  look  with, 
also  a  mind  capable  of  knowing,  of  believing.  That  is  all  the 
creed  I  will  at  this  time  insist  on. 

You  announce  that  you  are  rather  quitting  philosophy  and 
theology  —  I  predict  that  you  will  quit  them  more  and  more. 
I  give  it  you  as  my  decided  prognosis  that  the  two  provinces  in 
question  are  become  theorem,  brain-web,  and  shadow,  wherein 
no  earnest  soul  can  find  solidity  for  itself.  Shadow  I  say  ;  yet 
the  shadow  projected  from  an  everlasting  reality  within  our- 
selves. Quit  the  shadow,  seek  the  reality. 


654  APPENDIX. 

The  one  important  contribution  of  America  to  the 
world's  highest  thought  is  found  in  Emerson.  If  he  may 
be  characterized  by  a  single  trait,  it  is  perhaps  this  :  he  is 
so  sensitive  to  the  ethical  and  spiritual  element  that  he  sees 
it  everywhere.  His  emphasis  is  not  on  conflict  but  on 
harmony.  There  is  no  moral  indifference  in  him,  —  al- 
ways there  is  a  high  note  of  duty.  But  in  his  pages,  and 
in  his  personality,  duty  seems  so  naturally  the  law  of  life 
that  it  prevails  almost  without  a  struggle.  The  personal 
victory  is  so  early  and  completely  won  that  the  mind,  not 
centred  on  internal  combat,  looks  freely  forth  on  the 
world,  and,  seeing  everywhere  congenial  traits  of  goodness 
and  intelligence,  interprets  the  world  as  divine  indeed. 
Our  own  consciousness,  he  teaches,  has  its  value  to  us  in 
that  it  too  reflects  a  ray  from  the  sun  which  is  the  life  of 
all.  He  sometimes  impresses  the  sympathetic  reader  as 
possessing  a  faculty  of  the  soul  which  is  like  an  added 
sense ;  he  seems  to  discern  as  if  by  immediate  vision  the 
presence  throughout  the  entire  universe  of  divine  intelli- 
gence, beauty,  and  love.  He  speaks  of  spiritual  being 
with  a  tranquil  familiarity,  a  perfect  assurance,  and  at 
the  same  time  with  a  clear  recognition  of  all  the  homely 
facts  in  which  the  majesty  of  existence  is  clothed.  It  is 
true  that  the  sort  of  superterrestrial  serenity  in  which 
Emerson  abides  somewhat  incapacitates  him  from  meet- 
ing the  wants  of  mundane  men.  From  sorrow  and  care 
he  dwells  remote.  ,  The  dilemmas  of  the  intellect,  and 
the  contradiction  between  the  ideal  and  actual  worlds,  he 
seems  in  no  way  anxious  to  solve,  —  he  calmly  looks  over 
the  head  of  every  difficulty.  But  even  the  man  of  more 
scientific  and  logical  mind,  who  cannot  discern  in  the  facts 
of  existence  a  sufficient  ground  for  this  exultant  confidence, 
yet,  if  there  be  in  him  any  loftiness  of  nature,  leaves 
Emerson's  pages  with  a  sense  of  drawing  deeper  breath, 
and  with  new  inspiration  alike  to  labor  and  to  enjoy.  To- 
ward forms  of  thought  and  belief  other  than  his  own, 


MOVEMENTS   OF   THOUGHT.  655 

Emerson  is  as  sympathetic  as  Carlyle  is  scornful.  Him- 
self a  transcendentalist,  he  rejoices  in  every  discovery  of 
the  man  of  science,  in  every  stroke  of  good  work  done  by 
the  positivist.  There  is  no  circle  of  sincere  thinkers  or 
manly  toilers  but  welcomes  him  to  its  fellowship.  Hardly 
any  other  intellect  has  so  harmoniously  blended  ideality 
with  common  sense.  Emerson  is  unique  among  the  men 
of  his  time,  yet  his  full  significance  is  seen  only  by  con- 
sidering the  soil  whence  he  sprung  and  where  he  flourished. 
He  was  cradled  in  a  little  community  which  then  perhaps 
beyond  any  other  combined  an  ordered  freedom,  a  gen- 
eral and  temperate  prosperity,  and  a  serious  moral  tem- 
per. It  was  the  fruit  of  two  centuries'  cultivation  of  a 
choice  stock  under  conditions  austere  and  pure.  For  a 
few  decades  the  theological  soil  had  been  mellowing. 
The  impulse  of  a  new  national  life  was  felt  in  full  force. 
A  great  mind,  born  into  such  circumstances,  leaped  for- 
ward —  with  a  swift  splendor  like  one  of  America's  bril- 
liant days  —  out  of  the  old  dogmas  into  the  recognition  of 
all-encompassing  divinity.  If  social  progress  be  indeed 
the  law  of  humanity,  it  may  happen  in  later  ages  that  con- 
ditions of  general  freedom,  order,  and  morality,  akin  to 
those  which  generated  an  interpretation  of  the  world  so 
inspiring  and  benign,  may  afford  a  like  benignity  and 
cheer  as  the  natural  inheritance  of  earth's  children.  Yet 
not  even  the  Bostonian  will  claim  that  his  town  was  ever 
an  exact  prototype  of  the  Millenium,  and  in  Emerson  we 
occasionally  feel  a  somewhat  bloodless  quality,  natural  to 
one  born  in  a  society  bare  of  art  and  amusement.  He  is 
distinctly  averse  to  laughter,  and  he  never  moves  our 
tears.  If  we  cannot  always  stay  with  him  on  the  heights, 
there  is  some  compensation  in  the  ruddier  life  of  the  val- 
leys. But  in  Emerson  we  get  the  inspiration  not  only  of 
inspiring  thought,  but  of  a  heroic  personality.  He  rose 
victorious  over  troubles,  —  ill  health,  perplexities,  bereave- 
ments, isolation,  uncongenial  employment,  flattery  and 


656  APPENDIX. 

crude  imitation.  Always  he  was  steadfast  and  gracious, 
and  in  his  society  as  in  his  writings  men  felt  that  the  life 
of  the  spirit  was  a  reality.  The  humblest  felt  his  charm, 
and  every  baby  in  Concord  stretched  out  its  hands  to  him. 
Emerson  is  single  among  his  countrymen  in  the  height 
of  his  genius  and  in  the  realm  of  his  thought.  But  he 
may  be  viewed  as  the  central  figure  in  a  group  which 
marks  the  flowering  into  literature  of  a  national  life  that 
had  found  in  its  earlier  channels  in  politics,  ecclesiastical 
religion,  and  material  labors.  The  most  distinct  contribu- 
tion of  America  to  the  world  has  been  the  development 
of  a  well-ordered  federal  democracy ;  its  early  great  men 
were  statesmen ;  the  core  of  its  history  in  the  present  cen- 
tury has  been  the  political  struggle  involving  union  and 
slavery ;  and  it  was  the  political  field  which  displayed  the 
personality  of  Abraham  Lincoln  —  perhaps  the  grandest 
individual  product  of  modern  democracy.  The  early  re- 
ligion of  America  was  essentially  of  the  Puritan  type  — 
with  its  intensity  of  moral  purpose,  its  seriousness  often 
exaggerated  into  morbidness,  and  the  growing  inadequacy 
of  its  creeds  and  ideals.  How  Puritanism  was  modified 
within  the  churches,  by  revolt  and  by  reform,  has 
been  hinted.  But  in  the  mid-period  of  this  century  came 
an  emergence  of  the  best  intelligence  into  a  richer  and 
more  various  region  of  thought  and  life,  exemplified  — 
after  the  transition  in  Cooper  and  Irving  from  English 
models  —  by  such  authors  as  Emerson,  Hawthorne,  Long- 
fellow, Lowell,  Holmes,  Whittier,  and  Mrs.  Stowe. 
Viewed  in  relation  to  moral  ideas,  the  common  mark  of 
this  group  is  the  movement  from  Calvinism  into  a  more 
humane  and  rational  religion.  In  Hawthorne,  indeed,  the 
ghosts  of  the  old  terror  still  haunt  the  imagination,  still 
tinge  with  gloom  a  mind  that  disowns  the  old  creed.  No 
moral  atmosphere  can  be  more  depressing  than  where,  as 
in  "  The  Scarlet  Letter,"  Guilt  and  Retribution  appall  the 
soul  while  Redemption  has  faded  out.  The  transfer  to 


MOVEMENTS   OF  THOUGHT.  657 

the  modern  conception  is  suggested  in  "The  Marble 
Faun,"  where  even  guilt  has  an  office  in  raising  man  out 
of  the  innocent,  sportive  animal  into  something  graver  and 
higher,  —  though  amid  an  encompassment  of  mystery  and 
dread.  Mrs.  Stowe  produced  her  greatest  effect  by  that 
picture  of  slavery  which  hastened  its  downfall,  but  she  is 
on  her  native  soil  in  sympathetic  interpretation  of  the  old 
religion  and  society  of  New  England  —  an  interpretation 
more  genial  than  the  reality,  because  already  the  grim  ness 
is  softened  by  distance.  Whittier  brings  the  Quaker 
mildness  and  "  inner  light,"  together  with  the  modern 
thought,  to  transform  the  traditional  creed  into  a  sweet 
gospel  of  humanity,  still  taught  and  led  by  Christ. 
Holmes  —  a  modern  Horace  in  wit,  sense,  and  lyric 
charm,  with  an  inspiration  from  wider  knowledge  and  a 
richer  civilization  —  assails  directly  and  sharply  the  sys- 
tem of  Calvin  and  Edwards  ;  while  he  suggests  a  new 
treatment  of  moral  problems,  in  the  light  of  physiology 
and  its  kindred  sciences.  Of  Lowell  and  Longfellow,  the 
general  tone  is  harmonious  with  these  their  compeers  ;  but 
they  write  more  as  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  library.  Long- 
fellow's picturesque  and  pleasing  verse  shows  little  direct 
influence  of  modern  currents  of  thought ;  while  Lowell 
gives  both  satiric  and  heroic  utterances  to  the  sentiments 
of  freedom  and  of  union,  and  his  later  poems  yield 
glimpses  of  the  grave  ponderings  of  our  time.  At  the 
other  pole  from  these,  away  from  books  and  from  Euro- 
pean culture,  is  Whitman,  —  the  rough,  ardent,  mighty 
voice  of  a  new  society.  His  strongest  sentiment  is  com- 
radeship —  the  mutual  good-will  of  a  brotherhood  of 
homely  toilers.  Nature,  too,  he  loves ;  much  of  the  old 
religious  trust  and  hope  is  in  him.  —  but,  along  with  the 
wideness  of  his  sympathy  with  all  power,  all  reality,  there 
is  some  obscuration  of  man's  choice  between  moral  good 
and  evil ;  there  is  a  strange  renunciation  of  that  decency 
which  is  the  garb  and  guardian  of  the  priceless  conquest 


658  APPENDIX. 

mankind  is  slowly  gaining  —  the  subordination  of  animal 
passion  to  the  moral  sense. 

But  Whitman  belongs  to  a  later  period  than  the  group 
of  the  mid-century  ;  indeed,  he  gives  perhaps  the  only 
highly  original  feature  to  the  succeeding  and  present  pe- 
riod. A  new  epoch  in  American  literature  dates  from  the 
Civil  War;  new  phases  of  society  and  of  thought  are  de- 
picted in  it.  But  to  religious  and  philosophical  ideas 
there  has  been  little  important  addition,  apart  from  Euro- 
pean importations.  In  that  earlier  group,  which  still  is 
largely  representative  of  the  nation's  highest  intelligence, 
as  well  as  in  the  parallel  group  of  leaders  within  the 
church,  this  is  to  be  noticed :  the  change  of  belief  and  of 
temper  is  mainly  toward  greater  cheer  and  hope  ;  there  is 
far  less  recognition  than  among  contemporary  English 
and  Continental  writers  of  those  un settlings  and  recast- 
ings  of  the  foundations  of  religion  which  lay  on  mind 
and  heart  their  heaviest  task.  This  easier  assumption  by 
the  American  mind  of  the  fundamental  sources  of  faith 
is  perhaps  partly  due  to  more  favorable  social  conditions, 
which  are  destined  to  spread,  and  to  carry  with  them  an 
atmosphere  which  naturally  generates  trust.  It  may  be 
also  in  a  degree  due  to  optimism  rising  from  a  temporary 
prosperity,  the  passing  incident  of  a  people  not  yet 
crowded  for  room.  And  partly,  no  doubt,  this  compara- 
tive rarity  of  the  deeper  questioning  indicates  a  society 
where  high  culture  and  the  leisure  for  thought  are  less 
common,  a  society  which  is  more  immature  and  follows  at 
some  distance  in  the  wake  of  the  more  educated  commu- 
nity. In  wealth  of  intellectual  production,  America  still 
compares  with  England  as  the  province  with  the  metrop- 
olis, and  for  the  masters  of  thought  and  passion  the 
daughter  must  still  for  the  most  part  look  to  the  mother. 

The  change  of  half  a  century  in  England  can  hardly 
be  better  realized  than  by  comparing  the  tone  of  Walter 
Scott  with  that  respectively  of  Thackeray  and  of  Dickens. 


MOVEMENTS   OF   THOUGHT.  659 

All  three  are  rich  in  genius  and  in  noble  feeling.  But 
they  represent  different  attitudes  toward  the  social  order. 
Scott  idealizes  and  defends  the  traditional  system.  His 
genius  is  sympathetic  and  not  critical.  The  past  charms 
his  imagination,  the  present  is  full  of  that  which  he  loves, 
and  toward  innovation  and  revolution  he  has  only  hostil- 
ity. Historically  he  must  be  viewed  in  relation  to  the 
Napoleonic  wars  of  conquest.  That  is  the  concrete  form 
which  revolution  takes  to  his  mind.  He  is  blind  to  the 
new  forces  of  beneficence  which  are  rising ;  he  is  as  indif- 
ferent to  social  and  political  reform,  and  to  advance  of  re- 
ligious thought,  as  Shakespeare  is  indifferent  to  Puritan- 
ism and  constitutional  liberty.  Neither  man  discerned 
the  master  forces  of  the  dawning  age.  We  all  remember 
Carlyle's  pronouncement  on  Scott's  emptiness  of  spiritual 
message :  "  The  sick  heart  will  find  no  healing  there,"  etc. 
But  this  means  only  that  Scott  had  no  healing  for  the  es- 
pecial sickness  of  Caiiyle  and  Carlyle's  day.  Like  Shake- 
speare, Scott  speaks  to  that  in  humanity  which  is  perma- 
nent. So  long  as  manhood  and  modesty  and  honor  and 
good  cheer  are  esteemed,  will  men  draw  health  as  well  as 
pleasure  from  Walter  Scott. 

The  change  of  temper  when  we  pass  from  Scott  to 
Thackeray  is  due  partly  to  personal  temperament  and  char- 
acter, but  partly,  also,  to  change  in  the  time.  How  great 
Thackeray  is  in  creative  imagination,  in  humor,  in  kind- 
ness, need  not  be  dwelt  on,  but  his  distinctive  quality  is 
truthfulness.  It  appears  everywhere,  —  in  his  close  fidel- 
ity to  nature,  in  the  purity  of  his  style,  and  in  that  sad  sin- 
cerity which  is  the  characteristic  atmosphere  of  his  work. 
It  is  no  longer  possible  to  believe  in  the  old  world  as  Scott 
believed  in  it.  Even  Scott's  faith  is  a  little  wavering ; 
he  really  cannot  give  credit  to  ghosts  and  fairies  ;  he  must 
needs  own  that  the  Stuarts  were  not  a  heroic  race,  —  but 
he  can  still  cast  a  glamour  over  feudalism  and  chivalry 
and  monarchy ;  can  even  idealize  a  George  the  Fourth. 


660  APPENDIX. 

"  Dear  old  make  -  believes !  "  Thackeray  seems  to  say, 
"  would  that  we  could  accept  them."  And  he  plays  some- 
times with  that  fairy-land,  in  mixture  of  love  and  derision, 
as  when  he  writes  "  Rebecca  and  Rowena."  He  likes  to 
get  into  the  children's  company,  where  the  make-believe 
is  still  kindlier,  as  in  "  The  Rose  and  the  Ring."  With 
the  near  past  he  is  in  friendly  touch ;  he  is  at  home  in 
company  with  the  wits  and  beaux  and  fine  ladies  of  Queen 
Anne's  day.  But  he  is  essentially  a  man  of  his  own  time. 
He  calls  himself  a  preacher  —  and  what  gospel  does  he 
preach  ?  "  Vanity  of  vanities,"  —  of  all  Ijomilies  the  sad- 
dest !  As  a  preacher  he  scarcely  wins  converts,  — 
scarcely  expects  converts ;  conversion  in  any  sense  hardly 
has  place  in  his  view  of  life,  though  there  are  exquisite 
exceptions,  as  when  he  shows  Ethel  Newcome  "  purified 
by  terror  and  by  pity  "  out  of  her  worldliness.  He  holds 
a  high  ideal  of  truth,  honor,  and  gentleness,  but  no  strong 
faith  and  no  resolute  purpose.  He  reveres  the  purity  and 
piety  of  women,  he  sympathizes  with  all  courage  and  gen- 
erosity in  men,  but  he  kindles  in  his  reader  no  ardor  of 
virtue.  Life  is  a  disappointment  —  that  is  his  perpetual 
refrain.  It  is  when  he  forgets  his  own  haunting  sense  of 
frustration,  and  portrays  life  with  as  little  thought  of  a 
moral  as  Shakespeare  or  Scott  —  when  he  gives  us  Raw- 
don  Crawley  parting  with  Becky  before  Waterloo,  or  Clive 
Newcome  arm-in-arm  with  the  Colonel  —  it  is  then  that 
he  is  at  his  best.  That  his  sincere  and  searching  gaze 
not  only  finds  in  the  world  so  large  an  element  of  pretence 
and  unworthiness,  but  so  fails  to  find  anywhere  a  full 
fruition  or  an  ideal  nobility,  —  this  seems  surely  due  in 
part  to  some  idiosyncrasy,  some  inwrought  sombre  strain 
or  disheartening  experience.  But  partly,  also,  it  is  be- 
cause "  the  times  are  out  of  joint."  Better  no  gods  than 
idols  —  better  no  worship  than  worship  of  a  George  the 
Fourth.  That  section  of  society  with  which  he  is  most 
familiar  is  intensely  worldly  —  better  satirize  it  than 


MOVEMENTS  OF   THOUGHT.  661 

glorify  it.  With  a  spirit  most  reverent  as  to  religion,  he 
finds  piety  as  an  active  force  hardly  anywhere  but  in  the 
lives  of  a  few  good  women  —  he  does  almost  silent  hom- 
age to  it  there ;  but  a  religion  that  satisfies  and  possesses 
a  manly  nature,  he  scarcely  seems  to  know.  Nothing  is 
more  unjust  than  to  call  Thackeray  a  cynic,  —  but  he 
lacks  the  note  of  victory.  We  miss  in  him  the  high  faith 
and  the  resolute  purpose  which  alone  can  exalt  life  into  a 
heroic  scene.  He  sees  the  world  as  Vanity  Fair  ;  he  pic- 
tures with  keenest  observation  the  traffickers  and  the 
rogues,  the  mountebanks  and  jugglers,  the  honest  and 
simple  folk,  —  but  he  does  not  see  Christian  and  Faithful, 
with  faces  firm  set  toward  the  Celestial  city.  The  men 
whom  he  paints  most  sympathetically,  like  Henry  Esmond 
and  Pendennis's  Warrington,  are  by  some  great  disap- 
pointment thrown  out  of  the  arena  of  action,  and  look  on 
—  grave,  pitiful,  passive.  As  we  read,  we  sometimes  ask, 
Is  this  an  age  that  has  lost  its  faith,  or  only  a  man  that  has 
lost  hope  ?  There  is  no  finer  or  more  typical  scene  in 
Thackeray  than  that  where  Esmond  breaks  his  sword. 
His  love  proves  a  soulless  coquette,  his  sovereign  an  un- 
grateful libertine  —  but  in  the  very  moment  when  that 
gloom  encompasses  him,  honor  shines  bright.  No,  Thack- 
eray is  as  little  a  cynic  as  Cervantes,  and  the  ideal  of  a 
knightly  gentleman  is  revived  and  perpetuated  in  Colonel 
Newcome  as  in  Don  Quixote.  The  same  searching  truth- 
fulness which,  as  we  read,  casts  a  judgment-day  light  on 
our  foibles,  reveals  some  traits  of  good  where  we  least 
looked  for  them.  Who  but  Thackeray  could  win  our 
interest  and  even  sympathy  for  a  scoundrel  like  Barry 
Lyndon  ?  If  he  finds  in  the  saint  a  touch  of  the  sinner, 
he  sees  in  each  sinner  some  undeveloped  germ  of  the  saint. 
He  strengthens  the  tie  of  our  common  humanity.  Here 
and  there  throughout  his  work  are  passages  expressing  a 
genuine  and  natural  piety,  the  more  impressive  for  the 


662  APPENDIX. 

humility  and  awe  that  restrain  from  diffuse  utterance ; ! 
and  that  kindly  light  which  touches  all  his  pictures  with 
frequent  gleams  shines  out  steadily  at  the  last  in  "  Denis 
Duval,"  like  a  peaceful  sunset  after  a  day  of  mingled  sun- 
shine and  cloud. 

With  an  equal  genius,  an  opposite  temperament,  and  a 
different  experience,  Dickens  brings  us  in  contact  with  the 
most  vital  and  active  forces  of  the  time.  As  the  distinctive 
note  of  Thackeray  is  truth,  so  that  of  Dickens  is  ardor.  He 
is  brimful  of  emotion  and  energy.  The  world  was  never 
fuller  of  passion,  sympathy,  struggle,  hope,  and  heartiness, 
than  we  find  it  in  his  pages.  In  his  society  we  never 
question  whether  life  is  worth  living.  His  genius  has  a 
richness,  an  elation,  a,  satisfaction,  like  Nature's  own. 
Here,  too,  we  must  lay  much  to  the  account  of  the  per- 
sonal endowment,  —  but  there  is  something  more.  Dick- 
ens belongs  to  the  common  people.  He  stands  among  the 
rising  forces.  That  middle  and  lower  class  of  England 

1  As  in  this  passage,  at  the  opening  of  From  Cornhill  to  Cairo  • 
the  scene  is  on  a  ship's  deck  after  midnight.  "  There  are  a  set  of 
emotions  about  which  a  man  had  best  be  shy  of  talking  lightly,  —  and 
the  feelings  excited  by  this  vast,  magnificent,  harmonious  Nature  are 
among  these.  The  view  of  it  inspires  a  delight  and  ecstasy  which  is 
not  only  hard  to  describe,  but  which  has  something  secret  in  it  that  a 
man  should  not  utter  loudly.  Hope,  memory,  humility,  tender  yearn- 
ings towards  dear  friends,  and  an  inexpressible  love  and  reverence 
towards  the  Power  which  created  the  infinite  universe  blazing  above 
eternally,  and  the  vast  ocean  shining  and  rolling  around  —  fill  the 
heart  with  a  solemn,  humble  happiness,  that  a  person  dwelling  in  a 
city  has  rarely  occasion  to  enjoy.  They  are  coming  away  from  Lon- 
don parties  at  this  time  ;  the  dear  little  eyes  are  closed  in  sleep 
under  mother's  wing.  How  far  off  city  cares  and  pleasures  appear 
to  be  !  how  small  and  mean  they  seem,  dwindled  out  of  sight  before 
this  magnificent  brightness  of  Nature  !  But  the  best  thoughts  only 
grow  and  strengthen  under  it.  Heaven  shines  above,  and  the  hum- 
bled spirit  looks  up  reverently  towards  that  boundless  aspect  of  wis- 
dom and  beauty.  You  are  at  home,  and  with  all  at  rest  there,  how- 
ever far  they  may  be  ;  and  through  the  distance  the  heart  broods 
over  them,  bright  and  wakeful  like  yonder  peaceful  stars  overhead." 


MOVEMENTS   OF  THOUGHT.  663 

which  the  fastidious  observer  finds  so  dreary  and  Philis- 
tine, Dickens  reveals  as  palpitating  with  human  interests, 
with  tragedy  and  comedy.  He  is  as  strenuous  a  champion 
of  the  poor  as  Victor  Hugo.  His  rich  and  riotous  humor 
is  untainted  and  wholesome.  He  cares  nothing  for  politi- 
cal parties,  he  is  contemptuous  toward  the  professional 
philanthropist,  but  wherever  he  sees  a  concrete  wrong  or 
stupidity  —  poor-law  abuse,  debtor's  prison,  circumlocution 
office  —  he  flashes  out  in  denunciation  and  ridicule.  He 
is  a  man  of  the  common  people  too  in  that  he  lives  far 
more  by  feeling  than  by  reason.  He  not  seldom  falls  into 
exaggeration,  for  the  sake  of  immediate  effect,  unre- 
strained by  that  accuracy  of  sight  and  speech  which  is  the 
austere  virtue  of  the  intellect.  A  "  self-made  "  man,  he 
has  gained  energy  in  the  making,  but  has  missed  culture. 
When  he  reverts  to  past  ages,  it  is  oftenest  with  a  hearty 
hatred  for  their  cruelty  and  bigotry.  With  creeds  he  has 
little  concern ;  as  to  the  intellectual  foundations  of  Chris- 
tianity he  takes  small  thought ;  but  he  warmly  appropri- 
ates all  the  elements  of  love  and  trust  and  hope  which 
shelter  under  the  old  creed.  He  gives  to  the  New  Testa- 
ment story  and  to  its  central  figure  a  sympathetic  human 
interpretation.  He  is  the  minstrel  of  Christmas  ;  and  the 
words  of  Christian  faith  —  "I  am  the  Resurrection  and 
the  Life  "  —  give  an  undertone  to  his  noblest  passage,  the 
death  of  Sidney  Carton. 

Neither  Dickens  nor  Thackeray  shows  perceptibly  any 
direct  influence  of  the  scientific  spirit.  But  that  influence 
tells  in  full  force  upon  the  two  greatest  of  their  poetical 
contemporaries,  Tennyson  and  Browning.  Common  to 
both  poets  are  an  imaginative  genius,  a  serious  morality, 
and  a  high  culture,  sensitively  open  to  all  the  complex  in- 
tellectual forces  of  their  time.  In  Browning  we  see  those 
forces  in  their  diversity  and  tumult;  in  Tennyson  they 
are  held  tributary  to  a  self -controlled  mind.  Browning  is 
not  neuter  in  the  struggle  ;  the  note  of  faith  and  courage 


664  APPENDIX. 

predominates  in  him.  But  his  aim  is  dramatic ;  he  gives 
full  exhibition  to  saint  and  sinner,  to  sceptic  and  devotee, 
to  passion  of  sense  and  passion  of  spirit.  He  has  some- 
times been  compared  to  Shakespeare,  and  as  to  the  wide 
range  of  his  sympathies  the  comparison  is  not  unapt.  He 
portrays  a  wider  world  than  Shakespeare,  for  in  the  inter- 
vening centuries  that  structure  of  religious  belief,  to  which 
Shakespeare  pays  at  least  a  passive  respect,  has  broken 
up,  a  host  of  new  forces  have  entered  society,  and  the  ele- 
mental war  in  man  has  taken  on  new  depth.  But  Brown- 
ing has  not  Shakespeare's  impersonality,  nor  his  variety  of 
atmosphere ;  he  visibly  mixes  himself  with  each  one  of  his 
characters.  And  his  peculiarity  is  to  be  always  seeking 
the  intensest  phases  of  thought  and  emotion.  There  is  in 
him  much  of  the  temper  of  the  Elizabethan  dramatists  — 
the  quest  through  earth  and  heaven  and  hell  for  emotional 
and  intellectual  excitement.  To  him  energy  is  the  one 
thing  needful ;  the  moral  of  "  The  Statue  and  the  Bust  " 
is  characteristic  —  better  vigorous  sinning  than  no  vigor 
at  all.  Perhaps  his  main  significance  is  this:  in  an  age  in 
which  materialistic  and  sceptical  tendencies  are  strong,  we 
see  in  him  the  poetic  spirit  shining  out  in  its  fullest  in- 
tensity. In  him  we  see  the  soul  turning  the  very  forces 
which  seem  to  threaten  its  noblest  life  into  ministers  to 
that  life.  He  is  one  of  those  who  go  far  to  justify  the 
fine  exaggeration  of  Elizabeth  Browning,  when  she  speaks 
of  poets  as 

"The  only  truth-tellers  now  left  to  God." 

He  is  the  reverse  of  Wordsworth  in  this,  that  while  the 
earlier  poet  intersperses  long  tracts  of  dulness  between  his 
grand  passages,  Browning  on  the  other  hand  gives  us  no 
intermission  from  the  strain  of  thought  and  feeling.  Al- 
ways we  are  in  a  tempest,  buffeted  by  waves  of  ecstasy 
and  agony,  until  we  are  ready  to  cry  out  with  Gonzalo, 
"  Now  would  I  give  a  thousand  furlongs  of  sea  for  an  acre 


MOVEMENTS  OF  THOUGHT.        665 

of  barren  ground  ;  long  heath,  brown  furze,  anything !  " 
Like  Wordsworth,  but  for  the  opposite  reason,  Browning 
is  perhaps  best  appreciated  in  judicious  excerpts.  In  his 
noblest  words,  he  thrills  us  with  heroism  and  tenderness. 
He  shows  us  the  soul  facing  all  situations  and  exigencies, 
—  of  love,  and  combat,  and  fear ;  old  age,  as  in  "  Rabbi 
Ben  Ezra  ;  "  the  blackest  frown  of  destiny,  as  in  "  Childe 
Roland  ;  "  death,  as  in  "  Prospice,"  —  and  everywhere 
victorious. 

Tennyson's  early  poems  display  a  dainty  fancy  amusing 
itself  with  subtleties  and  caprices,  but  with  a  more  se- 
rious strain  getting  the  ascendency,  as  in  "  Locksley  Hall ; " 
until,  between  "  The  Princess  "  and  "  In  Memoriam," 
there  comes  a  great  change.  "  The  Princess,"  with  all  its 
beauties,  is  indeed  "  a  medley,"  but  "  In  Memoriam " 

stands 

"  Like  a  statue,  solid-set, 
And  moulded  in  colossal  calm." 

Thenceforth  Tennyson  is  always  nobly  serious.  He 
has  the  consistency  not  of  a  creed  but  of  a  temper.  We 
see  in  him  the  spiritual  elements  of  Christianity  harmoni- 
ously blending  with  modern  types  of  thought  and  society. 
The  old  so  fuses  with  the  new  that  the  dividing  line  can- 
not be  traced.  A  most  English  trait  is  this,  —  that  con- 
tinuity of  past  and  present  which  adds  a  charm  to  every 
English  landscape,  and  transmits  an  ever  broadening  her- 
itage of  ordered  freedom.  Tennyson  is  in  close  touch 
with  the  political  life  of  his  people.  He  has  the  temper 
generated  in  that  highest  of  social  arts,  the  self-govern- 
ment of  a  nation,  which  is  but  a  supreme  manifesta- 
tion of  self-government  in  the  individual.  He  borrows 
the  legends  of  an  early  age,  with  no  pretence  at  reality, 
but  as  a  fit  pictorial  setting  for  the  Christian  graces  of 
Honor,  Purity,  Service,  and  Faith.  Among  all  poems, 
"  In  Memoriam  "  stands  unique.  It  shows  us  the  educated 
modern  mind,  face  to  face  through  a  long  period  with  the 


APPENDIX. 

supreme  problems,  with  the  desire  for  truth  intensified 
by  the  loss  of  a  beloved  and  revered  companion  spirit. 
There  is  the  recognition  of  some  spiritual  sovereignty  in 
Christ ;  there  is  equally  the  recognition  of  the  evolution- 
ary view,  both  in  its  hopes  and  its  discouragements.  We 
follow  the  exploring  thought  in  varying  quest,  but  in  the 
general  movement  of  the  poem  we  see  the  successive  stages 
of  a  spiritual  development.  It  is  the  slow  and  perfect 
victory  of  Love  over  Death  and  over  Doubt.  What  we 
see  at  last  is  the  persistence  of  the  personal  affection,  its 
assured  hold  on  some  great  future,  and  its  widening  into 
sympathy  with  all  of  nature  and  humanity.  In  the  stanza 
which  concludes  the  body  of  the  poem,  we  have  the  epitome 
of  the  poet's  philosophy.  Let  us  trust,  he  says,  — 

"With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control, 
The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved, 
And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul." 

Years  pass,  and  then  comes  a  conclusion,  of  which  the 
climax  sums  up  the  faith  and  aspiration  of  our  age.  The 
occasion  is  the  bridal  of  a  friend.  There  is  a  picture  of 
the  happy  scene,  a  perfect  sympathy  with  the  wedded  lov- 
ers' joy,  a  prevision  of  its  sacred  fruitage,  and  the  suc- 
ceeding higher  race  of  men  :  — 

"  Whereof  the  man  that  with  me  trod 
This  planet,  was  a  noble  type, 
Appearing  ere  the  times  were  ripe, 
That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God, 

"  That  God  which  ever  lives  and  loves, 
One  God,  one  law,  one  element, 
And  one  far-off  divine  event, 
To  which  the  whole  creation  moves." 


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